


Death of Today

by Epic Solemnity (Dark_Cyan_Star)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Battle Scenes, Child Neglect, Dark Harry Potter, Death Eaters, Dysfunctional Family, Experimentation, Family Drama, M/M, Magical Creatures, Manipulation, Mates, Minor Character Death, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Obsessive Behavior, Politics, Possessive Behavior, Revised Version, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, Unspeakables (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 56,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26953177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Cyan_Star/pseuds/Epic%20Solemnity
Summary: HP/LV Slow Burn. Major AU. Orphaned and having no tolerance for Muggles, Harry arrives at Hogwarts a bitter boy. Unusually intelligent, he's recruited by both the Unspeakables and the Death Eaters at a young age. His loyalty, however, is not to the Ministry nor to the Death Eaters, but to the cause of bettering himself and becoming his own force in the Wizarding world.As he grows older, he constantly has to struggle to keep his footing around a manipulative and bored Dark Lord, who fancies mind games and intellectual entertainment.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Kudos: 480
Collections: Harrymort/Tomarry Recs for the Soul, My loved ones, Top Fic - HP/LV/TR





	1. Part One, Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Revision from 2009 version. Slash. LV/HP (Slow burn). Dark/OOC/bitter Harry who has been renamed ‘Izar’ for this AU.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter characters/world!
> 
>  **Edited:** 10.11.2020

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTES:** I received (and am still receiving) requests for Death of Today to be moved to AO3. I didn't feel right converting it unless I could look over the chapters and try to revise/edit what I could. Death of Today was written in **2009** -it's going to have some cliche plot devices, overused tropes, and undeveloped story lines. As much as I'd like to do a total revision, and fix all of that, I only have time to look at sentence structure and dialogue. 
> 
> I'll post clean/edited chapters when I can. 😊

**Prologue**

She pressed the newborn against her chest and inhaled his scent deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed as the aroma permeated her senses, and she willed it to become a permanent imprint in her memory. Movement on the other side of the orphanage door alerted her to the diminishing time she had with her her son. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped him tighter.

She _should have_ left him on the doorstep with a letter. But her legs were heavy. Her heart heavier. She needed to see the face of the stranger she was surrendering her son to.

An unthinkable act. A selfish sacrifice.

But it needed to be done.

Frozen in place, she hardly reacted as the door’s several locks finally unlatched and the heavy door groaned opened. 

"Can I help you?"

Lily instinctively noted the stranger’s warm, elderly tone. She inhaled the baby— _her_ baby—once more and opened her eyes to the Muggle standing before her. Outwardly, she _appeared_ kind enough, gentle enough, to raise her son. There were laugh lines creasing around her mouth and eyes, and her hands were wrinkled with age-old experience and wisdom.

As Lily bowed her head, her deep hood further veiled her features from the Muggle’s curious observation. Adjusting the small newborn in her arms, Lily was unable to satisfy her marvel at the purity, the beauty she had created. The baby, no more than a few weeks old, was a precious and painfully bittersweet sight.

But such pain—that had once seemed crushing and suffocating—had long since dulled and flatlined. There was no emotion left to feel but a sliver of remorse and possessive greed.

Her arms extended stiffly.

They felt like weights as she handed over her baby to the Muggle woman. "Here," she whispered. "Please, please take him. Take my baby."

The Muggle's eyes widened. Quickly, she took the newborn child from her arms. With skilled hands, the elderly woman supported the child's neck and cradled the silent bundle closer. "Are you alright, dear? Perhaps you’d like to come inside?"

Lily remained silent, staring at the small newborn now in the Muggle's care.

"Dear?"

"Izar.” Lily struggled with a whisper. "His name is Harry—no Harrison…" Another part of her soul died as the Muggle cradled the black-haired little baby. She only wished she could feel the pain more deeply. For what she had done, she deserved every bit of emotional cruelty thrown at her.

"Izar?" The woman questioned, a frown creasing her lips at the foreign name. "His name is Izar Harrison?"

Lily nodded erratically, backing away with small, jerky steps. "Take good care of my baby.” She turned and fled.

“ _Wait!”_ The Muggle called after her.

It was for the best.

 _It was for the best,_ became Lily Potter’s lifelong mantra.

**1: Chapter One**

Lips parted and spit flew. “Freak.”

Izar flinched away from the droplets of saliva, trying not to let the larger boy bother him. His shoulders drew up defensively as he focused on the distant swings. The only sign of his anger were the nimble fingers slowly curling into fists and disappearing deep within his sleeves.

"You're a _freak_!" The boy laughed before shoving Izar from behind.

The dark-haired boy stumbled, trying to regain his balance. The toe of his boot hit the rocks and he went down hard, scraping his knees and palms as he struggled to support himself. As the children laughed, Izar remained there motionlessly, staring blankly at the blood seeping from the cuts on his palms. His dark eyes watched the crimson trail as it descended down and around his wrist, coiling like a snake.

No tears fell when the larger boy kicked him hard in the ribs before turning to leave.

Tears had stopped long ago.

Instead, his eyes turned from his bloody hands to the boy's back. His lips thinned furiously as he struggled to sit up. Around him, the world spun and he was more than aware of the other children watching him from afar. No one approached him. They were either too afraid of him, or they were afraid of being targeted by Louis, the orphanage tormenter.

Izar despised those other children.

He glowered, holding his bruised chest as he stood up and escaped the courtyard. It was _his_ fault anyway. He knew better than to go to the courtyard at this time.

He roamed through the orphanage hallways, a place he had always called home. Nothing in these hallways had changed. It never improved and had only worsened. It was old and worn, not dirty, but in desperate need of repairs and updates. Potential parents who visited the orphanage either felt pity for the children's current living conditions, or they felt uncomfortable enough to hurry their visit along.

Izar rushed up to his room that he shared with a younger boy.

Nursing his scraped palms, Izar entered his room and collapsed on the bed. The thin mattress groaned as it collided with the rusty springs. Paying no heed to the blood on his hands, Izar picked up the side of the mattress and took out the bit of parchment he had hidden there.

Staring at the letter, he allowed a small smile to cross his lips.

 _Hogwarts_.

Cradling the letter to his chest, Izar closed his eyes, imagining a world of witchcraft and wizardry.

He imagined a world where he was like all the others, a world where children wouldn't tease him for being different. He imagined a world full of new and vast knowledge. Most of all, Izar earned for a chance to prove himself. He wanted to make a name for himself in this fresh beginning. He didn't _want_ to be known as an orphan, no, he wanted to use his special powers and make new discoveries.

"Izar?"

Izar flinched, stuffing the bloody parchment under his pillow and turning toward the door. A caretaker stood near another woman, an older woman who was unfamiliar to Izar.

"A Professor McGonagall is here to see you."

Izar straightened from his lounged position, his curiosity piquing. With sharp and observant eyes, he watched as McGonagall nodded stridently to the caretaker before entering the room. Izar examined the way the older woman walked. She had an uptight stance, clearly suggesting a stern and professional demeanor.

"Mr. Harrison, it's a pleasure to meet you. I assume you got your Hogwarts letter?" McGonagall asked once the caretaker had retreated from the room.

Izar stared calmly at the woman, sensing the change of atmosphere with her presence. Something—a certain pressure and static—seemed to encircle her. It was faint and he felt himself a bit disappointed. He had thought that wizards and witches would have something _more_ about them. Something more superior that separated them from ordinary men and women. 

"Yes, Professor," he whispered respectfully as he continued examining her.

Suddenly, something in her posture shifted. He took note of her stiffening spine and her darkening expression. Unsettlement crossed her features briefly before she masked it expertly. "I am here to assist you with your shopping, Mr. Harrison," she continued, her voice hard and stern, yet her eyes tried to soften.

"Shopping?" Izar asked naively. He assumed she meant shopping for school supplies, for _wizard_ supplies. His pulse jumped at the prospect, but he sobered quickly. "But I don't have any money, Professor."

"Hogwarts creates an account for students who cannot financially afford supplies, Mr. Harrison." She offered him a smile he didn't return. She then settled her mouth into a stern line. "Would you like to accompany me today?"

"I would enjoy that very much, Professor."

For the first time, in a long time, he offered another human a smile. From the look of McGonagall's expression, Izar assumed he needed more work.

*** * * ***

Izar pulled self-consciously at his robes, straightening out the small wrinkles.

Walking the length of the platform, he absorbed the sights, still in silent shock at everything around him. Outwardly, he appeared disinterested and collected despite his internal turmoil. There was so _much_ of it. He hated being behind the rest of the children. From what he learned from McGonagall, most of these children were raised in this magical world.

They knew more than he did, he was already so many years behind.

Nonetheless, Izar would remedy that as soon as possible.

After getting over the initial shock of Diagon Alley, Izar had followed obediently behind McGonagall as they navigated through the village. Together, they purchased the required objects on the list and _only_ the required objects on the list. There were more books Izar would have liked to purchase, but he realized he was on a budget, borrowing like some _beggar_.

Izar aimlessly wandered toward the train.

There were students and parents everywhere, seeing their children off to another year at Hogwarts. He eyed the parents, watching mothers kiss their children's reddened cheeks and fathers proudly clasp their shoulders. Izar liked to pride himself on being independent, but he was only eleven, and watching the loving exchanges gave him a brief sting of bitter discontentment.

One handsome couple caught Izar's interest.

Judging from their similar blond hair and pointed features, the pair were father and son, saying farewell in their own particular way. They stood stiffly, separated by an aloof distance. Neither of the two showed any inclination of being emotional over their upcoming separation like the mass of other families on the platform. Their attire—Ezra noted—appeared just as formal as their interaction. The clothes looked as if they were spun in the finest silk and material. Even the buttons and stitching stood out luxuriously.

Izar's feet shifted closer to the entrance of the train, as well as closer to the two blonds.

The father’s majestic form turned. He glanced at Izar before looking away dismissively. It wasn't until the man did a double take when Izar turned rigid. He found himself under the scrutiny of frozen grey eyes. For the first time in ages, Izar found himself feeling vulnerable to another.

While McGonagall exhibited a faint difference from all the other adult witches and wizards in Diagon Alley, _this_ blond man possessed an even stronger allure that Izar had hoped every wizard would have possessed.

He was suddenly reassured.

Wizards weren’t ordinary! They weren’t like the others at the orphanage! They were _powerful!_

"A First Year?" the blond boy whispered to his father after noticing his guardian's averted attention.

Izar approached the two quicker, eager to get on the train and away from the older man's stare. He passed them, boldly keeping his eyes on the man's grey ones. Once he passed completely, he heard the man's voice, a deep, silky baritone. "He will no doubt be a Slytherin, Draco. Stick close to him and help guide him through his first year at Hogwarts."

Izar's shoulders sagged as soon as he locked himself inside an empty compartment.

Slamming the back of his head against the glass compartment door, he released a shaky breath. His hands trembled and his pulse raced.

He didn't understand his body’s reaction. Yes, he had felt defenseless and vulnerable around the man, but there was more to it. Izar had almost _felt_ the static around the older man. It was similar to both electricity and heavy air. It was almost as if Izar had sensed the man's magic. But that should be impossible, shouldn't it? Did wizards and witches sense magic?

He couldn't help but smile.

 _Finally_ , he had seen a real wizard, a real magical figure that stuck out from non-magical folk. Izar only hoped he was like that blond man. He hoped he wasn't like all the other adults and children here. He did not want to be _ordinary,_ but _extraordinary_.

The train lurched to a start and Izar clutched the door for balance.

He was off to a new life, a new world, leaving behind his horrible orphanage until the summer holidays.

A sharp rap at the door had Izar straightening up quickly. He neutralized his expression when he saw the blond boy standing on the other side, accompanied by a few other children.

Before Izar opened the door, he pondered on this predicament called 'friends.'

He had never had a friend at the orphanage. He had seen the workings of the orphanage, observed the other children and _their_ friendships. Never once had he seen them stick to the definition of loyalty. There was always a situation in which a friend stabbed the other in the back in hopes of gaining something from the betrayal.

It was human nature to think and act for oneself and only oneself. There was no such thing as friendship to Izar. However, he could use the blond boy as an ally. He could gain information about the Wizarding world from him.

Reluctantly, Izar opened the compartment, allowing the small group of four to enter.

"Do you mind if we sit here? Everywhere else is full," the boy drawled, sitting down without invitation. The girl sat down next to him, leaving the two larger boys to squeeze together on Izar's side.

Izar eyed the other boy, remembering how his father called him Draco. It was an unusual name, though Izar shouldn't pass judgment. He certainly knew his name wasn't traditional or conventional.

"Your lenses. Where did you get them?" the girl breathed with excitement. "They're breathtaking."

Izar frowned at the dark-haired girl as she leaned forward and eyed him with an uncomfortable amount of interest. "My lenses?" He didn't wear glasses or contacts.

"Yes, your eyes are dark silver with flecks of green. Conveniently Slytherin colors, so they _must_ be lenses. Where did you get them?" she repeated as if he were thick.

"They're not lenses," he replied darkly, irritated. He turned away from her and onto Draco. The blonde-haired boy was clearly amused at Izar's irritation. "I take it you're looking to be Sorted in Slytherin?" he questioned, proud he remembered that fact.

He had read a few passages from _Hogwarts: A History_ after the trip to Diagon Alley. He knew of the four Houses and their qualities. Izar secretly wished he'd be Sorted into Slytherin. Everything sounded spectacular at the castle, and his excitement had only grown after reading about it. Now, on the train to Hogwarts, he could barely contain his relief at being away from the orphanage and with his own 'kind.'

Draco’s eyes became hooded. "I'm already in Slytherin. This is my second year at the school. Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle are both second years as well. All of our families have been sorted into Slytherin many generations back. How about your family?" Before Izar could clearly understand the boy's question, Draco continued. "Oh, I apologize. I haven't properly introduced myself yet. I'm Draco Malfoy."

A pale hand held itself out toward Izar. He looked at it just briefly before reaching out his own hand.

"Izar Harrison," he greeted back.

Before he could touch Draco's hand, the blond dropped his offered hand quickly. Izar blinked, confusion breaking through his sturdy mask. What had he done wrong? Had he forgotten a Wizarding custom? Why was Draco's face slowly turning into a sour expression? He'd only been in this world for a few minutes and he'd already made a mistake.

"Harrison?" Draco repeated his last name, the scowl on his face turning into a repulsed grimace. "You are a Mudblood?"

"I'm unfamiliar with the term 'Mudblood,'" Izar repeated coldly, feeling his barriers rise at the dismayed glances he received from the lot.

"Of course you would be unfamiliar with it," Draco stressed, leaning away from Izar. "Mudbloods, otherwise known as Muggle-borns, are raised in the Muggle world by Muggle parents." Seeing Izar's blank expression, Draco gave a tight laugh, his eyes taunting Izar's lack of knowledge.

Izar immediately felt belittled.

Draco deepened his tone into that of a superior drawl. "Muggles are non-magical people," he clarified slowly, taking special care to humiliate Izar's intelligence. "They are the pathetic lot of this world. I, a pure-blood wizard, am _superior_ in the Wizarding world. We don't have a drop of Muggle blood in our family line. And _you—_ a Mudblood—are the scum at the bottom of our boots."

Izar sat there numbly, unable to believe something like this could happen here in this world.

He thought every wizard was the same…only separated by their power and knowledge level.

"Crabbe, Goyle, show this _scum_ out of our compartment. I can't believe father was _wrong_ in his assumptions."

Before Izar could comprehend it, two hands grabbed his arms, hauling him from his seat. Izar stiffened at the contact, his mind flashing back to the orphanage when the children bullied him. He shut himself down as the two boys pulled him out into the corridor and pushed him to the floor. Izar landed on his knees just as the compartment door slammed shut behind him.

Turning to look over his shoulder, he caught sight of Draco's superior smirk before the blinds were pulled shut.

Izar stayed on his hands and knees in the dark hallway. No students were mulling about at the moment. Instead, he could hear their cheery voices coming from the compartments. He bowed his head, staring blankly at the carpeted floor.

He finally had a name for non-magical folk. Muggles. Those children and caretakers the orphanage—the very same ones Izar hated—were Muggles. Yet, apparently, according to Draco, he was just like them. Izar was a Muggle-born, a child born to non-magical parents. The very same _Muggle_ parents who abandoned him at the _Muggle_ hell.

Izar hissed between his clenched teeth as his fingers clawed into the carpet. His shoulders shook with suppressed rage and sadness.

Draco may be 'purer' than Izar. And pure-bloods _may_ be the superior race, but Izar vowed he’d be the best damn Mudblood the Wizarding world had ever seen. He would surpass everything Draco did, and he would be more powerful than any pure-blood. Izar wouldn't allow himself to be compared to the filthy _Muggles_ , simply because Izar knew he was better than those _ordinary_ creatures.

He wouldn't be ordinary.

"Er… are you alright there, mate? Need a hand?" Another pale hand was thrust into Izar's face.

His shoulders trembled once more before his head slowly arched up to stare the redhead in the eye. It was a boy about his age, with freckles and second-hand robes. He appeared friendly enough, but Izar wasn't fooled. This may be another pure-blood.

The younger redhead backed away hesitantly, his hand falling uncertainly to his side.

"No," Izar whispered. "I don't need _help_. Not from you. Not from anyone." He stood up and brushed past the stunned redhead.

On his path to prove himself, he wouldn't need anyone _._

*** * * ***

Izar still felt a bit cold and shaken as he waited for the hat to finish its song. Despite being in a bad mood, he had taken notice of the beauty Hogwarts presented. It portrayed a warm glow to the students, yet the shadows were also alluring, welcoming an escape to Izar if he needed it. There were probably several places in this castle to hide away.

He couldn't wait to explore.

He couldn't wait to learn.

Knowledge was power. Was it not? The smarter someone was, the harder it was to destroy them. Intelligent people were difficult to be controlled. Right now, Izar was clueless about the politics in this world, about the magic, the spells, and the people. He didn't know anything about Wizarding traditions or how to interact with his betters. He had a lot to learn in seven years.

His fists clenched as he waited for McGonagall to call his name. He was more than aware of the taunting eyes on his back belonging to none other than Draco Malfoy.

However, Izar refused to let the blond-boy rile him up more than he already had.

“Harrison, Izar,” McGonagall spoke sharply, clearly.

Izar maneuvered his way past the unmovable forms of the other first years. He climbed up the stairs and approached the tattered hat. Whatever would transpire here would alter his future. It would either change things for the better, or for the worse. A House was a very important factor in the Hogwarts life.

But the Sorting Hat was skilled in the art of minds and character. It would know which House Izar would succeed in.

Before he sat down on the stool, he met eyes with the Headmaster. Izar paused in his advance, feeling the same sensation he had with Draco Malfoy's father, only this time, it was a great deal stronger. The sheer amount of static and hair-raising power surrounding the man was dizzying. Those kind blue eyes twinkled back at Izar, making the man appear ignorant of his own power.

Izar continued forward after the Headmaster gave him a warm nod.

Just as he sat, he caught a pair of black eyes looking back at him from the Head Table.

The hat covered his eyes a moment later.

" _Ravenclaw!"_


	2. Part One, Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited October 2020

**Part One, Chapter Two**

Dark eyes surveyed the unfolding activities before him, feeling his disgust heightening with each passing second.

It was all about status, power, and flaunting wealth and popularity.

Izar leaned against the wall near the refreshments, eyeing the dancing couples, as well as the groups of gossiping witches and wizards. It was only one of the many Ministry galas held during the year. Typically, the galas were either hosted by a pure-blooded family dabbling in politics for the first time, or established families already cemented in the political scene.

It became a contest of sorts.

Who could throw the most lavish, most entertaining celebration? Those who succeeded would be the talk of Britain’s Wizarding society for months. A high esteem, indeed, and they got to publicly promote their cause, or their intended candidate for the Wizengamot.

Izar didn't find it impressive in the least.

He couldn’t help but fathom how far he’d come these past four years without the name or gold of an established family.

Despite the advantages he could have attained acquainting himself with the pure-blooded children at school, he hadn’t formed any particular bond with them—or anyone. For the first two and a half years, Draco Malfoy had been a constant thorn to his side, muttering 'Mudblood' in the corridors, or going through unnecessary lengths to ridicule him. Eventually, the blond ceased his mistreatment when Izar never rose to the bait.

While Draco’s taunting had bothered Izar, he had kept his head down and immersed himself with his studies.

By request of Headmaster Dumbledore, last semester—during his fourth year—Izar had taken his O.W.L's a year early in order to measure his eligibility of skipping a year. While skipping years at Hogwarts was uncommon, it was frequent enough that Izar had been asked to go through the process.

In the end, he’d earned enough passing marks to skip his fifth year. The only ones who knew that Izar was starting his sixth year were a select few at the Ministry, the Professors, and the Unspeakables.

The Unspeakables.

Izar searched the crowd for his Unspeakable coworkers, still finding it hard to believe they’d offered him a position in their Department after his O.W.L. exams.

At first, Izar had been wary at their request to practice in their labs, but he had quickly taken the position. After all, magical theory had always intrigued him, and the Unspeakables were known to recruit young. Regrettably, because he was new to the Unspeakables, he was under close supervision and had to perform mundane tasks. Regardless of the grunt work, he got paid, and he would eventually expand his job duties.

"You look bored, Izar," a voice drawled next to him.

Izar turned to look at the short witch next to him, offering her a brief smile. The blonde Slytherin girl—Daphne Greengrass—was in Draco Malfoy’s year and one of few people he tolerated at Hogwarts.

“Daphne,” he greeted coolly before turning back to the room.

“Daddy says you're skipping your fifth year and entering your sixth.”

“Yes," Izar replied shortly, unsurprised the news wasn't kept under closer wraps.

Daphne's father worked at the Ministry, and he was also on the Hogwarts Board of Governors along with Lucius Malfoy. Izar was sure Lucius had already told Draco about Izar’s eligibility of skipping a year. The entitled bastard was probably stalking the ballroom, looking to confront him about it. It wasn't that Izar was uncomfortable about his accomplishment, he just found the drama of the other students a waste of time.

At least no one knew of his Unspeakable job, aside from a select few at the Ministry as well as Dumbledore.

“Well, what about a congratulatory dance, then?” Daphne leaned against the wall next to Izar. She smirked at his dark silence. "My father dragged me here tonight. How awful. I had only wanted to catch up on my light reading.”

Izar turned to look at Daphne, unamused. "Don't mock me.” He pushed off from the wall. “You'd rather attend several of these events as opposed to reading a stimulating text."

She laughed outright. “And I know you'd rather have that handsome face of yours buried in a musty book. Only you would find reading _stimulating_." She moved away from the wall and stood opposite of Izar. “Which brings us to why you _are_ here. At a Ministry gala. Full of the pure-bloods you hate so much. With dress robes, no less."

Izar stepped backward and flashed a smirk. "I was invited to the gala because of my O.W.L results. And I was curious to see how the elite entertained themselves enough to accept the invitation. That's all." He offered a short, mocking bow when her expression crumbled suspiciously. "It's too bad your 'daddy' can't tell you everything, now isn't it, Greengrass?"

With that parting remark, he turned his heel.

"You owe me a dance later, Harrison,” she warned after him.

Like hell.

He couldn't dance.

And he just knew Greengrass would be the one to lead.

*** * * ***

Lucius listened to the chatter of those around him.

Unsurprisingly, most guests attending the Ministry gala were irresistibly drawn to Tom Riddle. It was ironically amusing, and provided Lucius with enough entertainment, simply because the majority of these Ministry workers were entirely ignorant to the high-end politician actually conspiring against them.

Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort to his followers, was the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. Outwardly, Tom appeared around sixty years of age with peppered hair. His eyes were dark and piercing, surrounded by the gentle fold of genuine laugh lines. He possessed enough youth to attract others, yet enough age to convey wisdom and a false sense of reassurance to others.

But Lucius had seen beneath the illusion.

And there was nothing reassuring underneath the Undersecretary façade.

Lucius’ attention returned to the group of wizards and witches surrounding the Undersecretary, noticing the unusual lull in conversation. Ordinarily, Tom Riddle was an accomplished politician, able to keep the discussion flowing. He was engaging, charming, and had a boundless amount of charisma. Yet to a trained eye, Tom Riddle was distracted tonight, and Lucius was the only one who noticed where the Dark Lord’s attentions truly lay.

The wizard’s dark eyes were following the lithe form of Izar Harrison.

Lucius hardly blamed the Dark Lord for his fixation.

He had not seen Izar since the boy's first day on the platform, yet Draco had written to him on more than one occasion about the younger student. His son’s words were theatrically hateful, his tone overdramatic in his sense of superiority over the _Ravenclaw Mudblood_ , but it was so blatantly clear how obsessed Draco was.

Lucius often shared his observations of Draco’s letters with Narcissa, and they shared a chuckle over their son’s antics. 

However, seeing Izar Harrison in person after all these years brought Draco’s letters into perspective.

Gone was the first year trepidation. Intelligence and maturity took its place. The young man had grown up handsomely. He walked with a deadly grace, a fitting gait for his lithe form. His black hair was crimped in natural waves with a few unruly strands curling at the ends. The face was purely patrician, a trait many pure-bloods shared. The high cheekbones, the slightly hollowed cheeks, and the thin neck all pointed to aristocracy. Yet the boy claimed he was a Mudblood.

And those eyes…

Lucius was suspicious of the boy's parentage, just as he had been when he’d first seen that wide-eyed stare. He hadn't shared his opinion with his son, who had learned from the boy himself that he was a Muggle-raised orphan.

“His name is Izar Harrison," Lucius whispered quietly in the Dark Lord's ear.

The Dark Lod’s eyebrows rose. "Is that so?"

The man tried to feign disinterest once he learned of the irrelevant surname, but Lucius would not stand by indolently. He felt a strange insistence pulling him toward the young man. The boy would be a good asset to their side. The Dark Lord wasn't foolish. He would recognize the enigma presented before him just as Lucius had.

"Yes, he is a declared Mudblood," Lucius agreed softly, sympathetic to the Dark Lord's less than enthused response. "But the boy is a quandary. I began looking in to him after his O.W.L. results.” Lucius paused just briefly, shooting a Ministry worker a warning stare as the foolish man tried to approach them. "He lives in an orphanage."

This piqued the Dark Lord's interest.

Lucius knew very little about Tom Riddle, but he did know the man had been raised in a Muggle orphanage.

“He resides in St. Patrick's Orphanage, a small Muggle orphanage near London. The turnout rate for adoption is the lowest in the region." Lucius looked to see if the Dark Lord was interested enough to continue. He was prompted to proceed with an indolent wave of a hand. “Apparently, Mr. Harrison has no documented birth parents…” Trailing off melodramatically, he raised a single, intrigued eyebrow. “He does not strike me as a Muggle-born. His appearance is far too purebred, his first name— _Izar_ —is…”

He left it at that and the Dark Lord was quick to acknowledge the irony.

“Shameful affair? Attempt to hide the bastard?”

“Highly probable,” Lucius murmured. The blond aristocrat watched the topic of their interest pull away from Ms. Greengrass, his expression clearly conveying boredom. “There are a numerous number of dark witches and wizards who would be so callous as to abandon their bastard with Muggles.”

“Callous?” the Dark Lord repeated quietly with an amused quirk of his brow. “You mean generous, Lucius. Most the dark witches and wizards in our circle wouldn’t have given that child the light of day.” He followed Izar with his eyes. “Regardless of the possibilities, it is strangely amusing that you have expressed such an interest in a boy that may very well be our enemy.”

Lucius stiffened, realizing he may have stepped over bounds at expressing his interest in a declared Mudblood.

"Alas,” the Dark Lord continued, “there is something he is unwittingly conveying that is worth exploring. Moreover, we cannot let good talent go to waste if it proves to be something worth discovering.” Tom Riddle stood up, casting Lucius a cold look, yet his eyes were incited. "Introduce me to the child."

Lucius cast a smug smile.

The Dark Lord's interest was sweetly intoxicating.

*** * * ***

Izar pulled out a pocket watch to check the time.

Only a few minutes left.

Owen Welder, the head Unspeakable, had forced Izar to attend the Ministry gala for at least two hours. The man claimed Izar could use a bit of socializing, as Unspeakables were intelligent not _antisocial_. From what Izar knew, this gathering went on all night. He wondered how anyone could enjoy such a gathering for the better part of the night—let alone two hours.

"Mr. Harrison," a voice interrupted Izar's musings.

Without looking up from his stolen pocket watch, Izar already knew who blocked his way.

It was in the pompous tone.

It was in the _magic._

"Mr. Malfoy," Izar murmured in greeting.

He snapped his pocket watch closed before dropping it back into his robe pocket.

Gazing at the man, Izar took special interest in tracing the man's coldly handsome features.

The wizard’s pale grey eyes swept the length of Izar in turn, paying close attention to his robes. The stare lingered near the untailored cuffs and the missing button on one of the pockets no one—but _Lucius Bloody Malfoy_ —would have noticed. "Remarkably flattering robes, Mr. Harrison, and for such a fitting celebration, no less. I presume the Board has invited you here in congratulations for passing your O.W.L.s and continuing on at a higher level?"

Izar glanced down at his secondhand robes, knowing the difference between a genuine and a sarcastic praise.

He hadn't any money to get new robes. He wouldn’t get his pay until the end of summer. Even then, Izar would probably give most of it to Hogwarts in order to pay off some of his loans.

Without conveying any emotion, he looked back up at the man. "You have great taste, Mr. Malfoy." He took a step back in order to give himself enough opening for an escape. “I apologize terribly for cutting this short, but if you’ll excuse me, I am needed back home."

Before he could turn, the hairs across his arms stood on end and goose bumps prickled across his skin. Izar pinpointed it to a strong aura in close proximity, similar in intensity to that of Dumbledore's, but far darker—far more sublime. Slowly, Izar turned to look at the man who had piqued his magic sensitivity. He had to strain his neck back to meet the eyes looking down at him.

Hastily, he stepped backward to refrain from craning his neck back.

Amused eyes watched him all the while.

"Mr. Harrison," Lucius' pleased voice barely penetrated through Izar’s surprise. “I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Tom Riddle, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister.”

Izar was speechless.

He had read about Tom Marvolo Riddle in textbooks, heard about him from gossiping students, and saw him in the papers. The man’s name and face were everywhere. He was an esteemed politician with incredible and impressive credentials. Seeing him in person, Izar couldn’t help but notice the tangible allure he projected.

He suddenly realized all that public admiration, and all that overzealous praise, was actually warranted. 

Riddle didn’t even have to open his damn mouth. It was in his power. And power—even to those who were not magic sensitive—attracted popularity.

Tom Riddle reached out a hand, snapping Izar from his musings. "Mr. Harrison, it's a pleasure.”

Izar reluctantly accepted that hand, feeling Riddle’s fingers close around his in a vice-like grip.

The jaws snapped closed around its prey and Izar felt trapped. On top of the cornered, panicky feeling, subtle shock-like prickles traveled across his skin upon their physical contact. It was not a poetic, nor a cliché reaction—nothing so made up. It was real. While it was expected the man’s strong aura physically affected him, his reaction to Riddle’s touch was not _normal_.

What was this?

The younger wizard looked away from Riddle and toward Lucius Malfoy. Through narrowed eyes, he noticed the blond man's immensely smug smirk. He suddenly felt played. Almost belittled. Izar did not appreciate the secrecy between Malfoy and Riddle. He did not take kindly to being toyed with because of his age and his inferior blood.

If there was one thing he knew about Lucius Malfoy, it was the man’s bold and rather public opinion of blood supremacy.

Why was Malfoy even approaching Izar, let alone introducing him to a lord-level wizard who reeked of dark magic? All that aside, why would he introduce him to such an influential politician?

Did they think him _stupid_? So flattered that he’d play right into their hands?

Izar became guarded and aggravated, as well as a bit fearful. He pulled his hand from Riddle's grasp, irritation spreading hotly. “Whatever game you're playing, I’d rather not be a part of it." He directed it at Riddle, the more powerful source of his frustration. “I have never, nor do I plan to step foot into politics. It is an honor to meet you, sir, but I don’t see a point in wasting your time by continuing this conversation.”

Shocking orange hair caught his eye and Izar hailed Owen Welder, the Head Unspeakable.

"Mr. Welder," Izar’s raised voice was enough to catch the man's attention.

The Unspeakable was very tall and muscular. His bushy orange hair haloed his face and climbed down his temples into a shaggy and uneven beard. He reminded Izar vividly of Hagrid, the half-giant at Hogwarts.

"It's five past nine. May I leave now?"

“Ah, my boy!” The man grunted, a pleased smile spreading selfishly across his lips. His rosy cheeks reddened further as he overworked himself by digging into his robe pockets. Producing a small book from one of the many pockets, he tossed it at Izar who caught it with one hand. "Cheers!” Completely oblivious to the tension between the trio, he toasted his goblet before ambling by.

Before Izar could activate the Portkey, his right wrist was unexpectedly shackled by long fingers.

He gazed up at Riddle with barely veiled surprise.

_The audacity…_

“You are incorrect in your assumptions. We are not playing any 'game'.”

He found himself nearly transfixed on the incensed brown eyes, unable to turn away from the challenge he saw in there.

“No?” Izar whispered, intrigued with the way the man had said _game._ It was said with such weight, such importance. But Slytherins enjoyed their games, didn’t they? “I find that hard to believe.” He pulled his wrist from Riddle’s grasp. “It is like one big charade to you, isn’t it? It must be fun, otherwise you wouldn’t have the patience.”

Riddle looked at Lucius before returning his gaze to Izar.

Suddenly, the Undersecretary moved until he was standing in front of Izar with his back to the mass of witches and wizards. Not only was he veiling Izar from curious onlookers, but his expression—which had ceased its painfully polite smile—was no longer under constant scrutiny.

“I must confess, this is one of the most unusual introductions I have ever had the pleasure experiencing.” He stared down at Izar with an amused expression. “Do you often go on the offensive with your elders?”

“I do,” Izar admitted easily. “I don’t appreciate cloaked intentions, and you and Mr. Malfoy are clearly enjoying something only you are privy to.”

“And what do you imagine that would be?”

Izar looked at Lucius.

“Eyes on me, child.” Riddle redemanded his attention. “What do you believe Mr. Malfoy and I could possibly be doing that would warrant such a defensive reaction from the likes of you?”

_From the likes of you…_

Izar clutched the small book until his knuckles turned white. He really shouldn’t let it affect him. The dismissive comment was expected. By now, it came to little surprise that those of higher status thought little of him. There was nothing wrong with apologizing for his earlier actions and excusing himself with a defeated hunch to his shoulders.

It would get him out of this situation. It would erase the focus from both men.

But the haughtiness in Riddle’s eyes…

Izar inhaled deeply and offered Riddle a cold stare. “I have no idea what you and Mr. Malfoy could be doing.” He waited until Riddle’s smugness amplified, but oddly enough, it never came. The dark stare was direct as Riddle waited for Izar to continue. “But I do question why someone with incredibly dark, lord-level power would settle for being a mere undersecretary. And why someone with that power—who seeks Lucius Malfoy for company—would voluntarily approach a Mudblood still in school.”

The stare grew rapturous. 

Riddle carefully inclined his head. “This is hardly the place to discuss such matters."

Unexpectedly, the man did not deny Izar’s allegations. There was obviously more to Tom Riddle, and despite Izar’s better judgement, he wanted to know what it was. Nevertheless, he could sense the danger. It was both a fearful and exhilarating feeling. If Izar continued his curiosity, he may very well find himself in a place he couldn't run away from.

He’d missed his opportunity to run when he had drawn attention to Riddle’s charade.

“But,” Riddle continued, “it is a matter I _do_ wish to discuss.”

“I'm afraid I'm due back home," Izar replied sharply.

"I know where to find you."

It was both a warning and a promise.

Izar nodded stiffly, grasping his Portkey and tapping it with his wand. It grew hot in his hands. He only had seconds, but it was enough time to catch the predatory glint in the man's eyes.

“I will be seeing you soon," Riddle promised as Izar was pulled away.


	3. Part One, Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited October 2020

**Part One, Chapter Three**

Izar adjusted the hood securely around his head as he walked the halls of the Department of Mysteries.

By the time one traveled to the ninth floor of the Ministry, there was a dramatic drop in temperature. The Unspeakables’ cloaks came with hoods and special material that was spelled to retain body heat. The robes were comfortable enough, and they always seemed to blend into the chambers at the Department.

Being in the shadows had always comforted him.

Glancing down at the ridiculously polished black stone, he stared unseeingly at his blurry reflection.

Today would mark his sixth week on the job. It had taken him two long weeks before he could make his way around the Department without getting lost. It came to no surprise when he heard unwelcomed guests often got lost, and if they entered through doors without access—without permission—they would undoubtedly be very unlucky depending on what experiments waited for them on the other side.

One gained access to the Department of Mysteries through an ordinary corridor. Once entered, they would walk upon the highly polished black floors until they stood in a circular room with twelve doors. The guests would then become dizzy and confused with the circling doors without handles.

Fortunately, the doors would not play tricks on the employees, but it still required a trained eye to navigate the Department.

Without looking up from the ground, Izar felt the pull toward the Death Chamber.

He inhaled deeply, trying to calm his rising curiosity. Inside the Death Chamber was the stone archway—the _Veil_. Izar had been intrigued and obsessed with it ever since he had taken the tour of the Department.

Unspeakables typically chose their area of expertise. There was the Love Chamber— also known as the Ever-locked Room, the Time Chamber, Space Chamber, Thought Chamber, and the Hall of Prophecy. There were also a few rooms in which Unspeakables just experimented with magic to create new and improved health equipment, as well as advanced objects for battle or everyday objects.

The latter was where Izar had been assigned. For now.

He enjoyed experimenting on things, yet… he was drawn to the Death Chamber. He _wanted_ to work there. His curiosity was never sated until he thoroughly investigated the object of his obsession.

Unfortunately, it didn’t appear as if he’d be allowed inside the Death Chamber for quite some time.

Izar entered the door to his right with a palm against the door. As it tasted his magical signature, it grew hot before clicking open. Stepping inside, he briefly glanced at the tables of Unspeakables who were hunched over their work. Their fingers worked diligently, either tinkering with their experiments, writing furiously with a quill, or using their wand to test the magic.

Izar slowly walked over to his bench, relieved to see the completed stack of his Time-Turners.

He’d nearly forgotten he’d finished on Friday.

Owen Welder, the Head Unspeakable, had given him the task of completing half a dozen Time-Turners. Every new recruit had the honor. While it was time-consuming to construct, Izar had grown accustomed to the busy work. The grains of sand, and the unique glass that wouldn't combust with time travel, were provided by the Time Chamber. Izar had only needed to spell the grains of sand.

_Individually._

It had been an educational experience, as there were different ratios of spells on the sand, but Izar wanted to start on something new today.

"Harrison," a voice barked.

Izar looked over his shoulder, eyeing the heavy-set man approaching. "Mr. Welder," Izar greeted, his fingers caressing the edge of his stainless-steel table. "Have you got a new project for me?"

He assumed, because he was only fourteen, that he was supervised more than the other Unspeakables. The other Unspeakables created their own schedules and started their own projects without constant micromanaging.

But Izar would take what he could.

It wasn’t as if he’d be young forever.

“Not exactly.” The man stopped next to Izar. "You wouldn't mind making six more Time-Turners, would you? There is a new order for them. You're one of the fastest, kid." The hand that patted him on the back nearly knocked Izar's lungs out.

He remained bowed forward from the hit, his eyes narrowing underneath his hood. "Of course, Mr. Welder," he replied jadedly. Bloody Time-Turners. "When would you like them completed?"

“Next week, Wednesday.”

Izar flashed the man a tight smile. "They will be completed, Mr. Welder. After which, may I continue on my own? I'd like to try my hand at creating something."

The orange beard turned windswept from the hearty, rich laughter. "Wouldn't we _all_ like to create the next best thing?" Welder motioned to the Unspeakables around the room. "Some of us spend years completing that _one_ idea, only to find out it’s useless to the general public. You won't be able to construct anything overnight, kid, but you may go on your own after the Turners are completed."

Owen walked away, chuckling under his breath at the irony of a mere child wanting to invent ‘the next best thing’.

Izar watched the man go blankly before looking down at the Time-Turners.

He would need to visit the Time Chamber again to gather the needed materials.

*** * * ***

Izar dragged his feet toward the orphanage.

He had donned on his Muggle clothing after work and had portkeyed his way over. He looked forward to the day he was legally of age to Apparate. It would make things easier. Granted, he had read about Apparating and the techniques involved, but he had yet to try it. It wasn't _legal_ to Apparate at the age of fourteen.

Did that include fourteen-year-olds who worked as an Unspeakable?

He stumbled on his own feet, grimacing down at his worn trainers. The lip of his shoe had detached from the sole.

If Lucius Malfoy could see him now…

A missing button on his dress robes was the least of his worries.

Entering the gated orphanage, Izar carefully maneuvered around the Muggle children as they sprinted in front of the building.

Pausing on the heavily chalked stairs, Izar stared out toward the swings. Every time he passed the swings, he was reminded of Louis and the boy’s treatment throughout the years. Izar had never been allowed on the swings, having been beaten away by Louis and his friends. At times, when Izar had gotten the chance to swing early in the morning, he found himself being attacked from behind. He was seven when Louis had pushed him off the swing in midair.

He had bitten through his lip and broken his arm. Those injuries hadn’t compared to the others he had received in this orphanage.

Izar clenched his jaw.

Why must he always reminisce? Why couldn't the past just stay _buried_?

Feeling disgusted with his inability to forget, Izar entered the depleted orphanage. It smelt of mold and mildew, a scent Izar had gotten used to throughout the years. He always associated mold with Muggles, and he always associated musk with orphanages.

"Izar," the receptionist greeted. "How was your day of work?" Her painted lips parted, revealing rather dim colored teeth.

“Remarkably entertaining.” He walked past her, not in the least bit interested in small talk.

"You have a visitor in the conference room," she replied cheerfully, not affected by his gloomy demeanor.

Izar stopped in his tracks, feeling a chill go down his spine. "A visitor?" His eyes averted away from the stairs and toward the closed door further down the corridor. The conference room was reserved for visitors and potential parents who were looking to adopt. He figured it was definitely _not_ the latter.

He had forgotten all about Tom Riddle.

"Yes, a visitor. A very charming man." Her lips melted into a celestial smile. "He arrived about an hour ago. I told him you were working, but he insisted on waiting for you. He's a very charm—"

"Charming man, yes.”

Almost as if in a daze, Izar moved past her and toward the conference room. Was he ready for this? How much threat could Tom Riddle possibly pose at a Muggle orphanage?

He opened the door and found his answer within seconds.

Yes, Tom Riddle could easily make trouble at a Muggle orphanage.

The man, not at all like he appeared yesterday, was lounging in a transfigured chair, his hooded eyes intensely drawn on Izar. Izar immediately felt exposed in his torn jeans, faded tunic, and ripped trainers. The vulnerability was so strong, it took him by surprise. It wasn't a feeling he had experienced in ages.

The man—

He was no longer _old._

Instead, he had thick black hair tied at the nape of his neck, revealing the sharp bone structure of a younger face. Riddle was a defined looking man. Some may not describe him as traditionally handsome, but Izar thought he was remarkably attractive. _Especially_ those crimson eyes that taunted him from the doorway.

If Izar hadn’t sensed Tom Riddle's familiar magic from the night before, he would have thought he was looking at a stranger.

"So glad you could make it," Riddle drawled.

Izar bowed his head, his fingers tightening on the door handle. He took a moment to gather both his bearings and his pride. After a short mediation, he pushed away his vulnerability and defenselessness. He didn't have to feel this way with Tom Riddle. Izar wouldn't let himself appear shaken. He was just as good… just as good…

Lifting his chin, he shut the door behind him and entered further into the room.

Trying to avoid Riddle's growing smirk, he sat down next to the man. “I wasn't expecting you today," Izar declared calmly. His eyes boldly locked on to Riddle's crimson. The man watched him as if he were utterly fascinating. "Especially in your true form. Either you are incredibly confident I won’t tell others, or you’ll make sure I don’t tell others."

Black eyebrows rose.

"How do you know this is my true form?" the man mused lowly. "How do you know I'm not disguising myself?"

"You _were_ disguising yourself," Izar said, becoming nearly excited with the implications. "Last night was your disguise. I was right to assume you had something other than politics in mind, wasn’t I? You have power—”

“And you are magic sensitive.”

Izar leaned back in his chair, suddenly realizing he was holding his breath.

“Ah,” Riddle proclaimed victoriously upon seeing Izar’s inertness. “I have a secret of yours and you have a secret of mine.”

“I revealed my secret to reveal yours,” Izar disputed. “There are many wizards and witches who are magic sensitive. Not many Undersecretaries to the Minister of Magic who are hiding such dark magic. Which brings us back to what your intentions are and why you’re playing it with Lucius Malfoy.”

Riddle allowed a faint smile to cross his lips. "You are an intriguing child," he declared as if Izar were a pleasant surprise that had unexpectedly amused him. For a long while, he sat motionlessly, silently observing Izar. "And you have maturity and wisdom far beyond your sixteen years."

Izar didn't even bat a lash at the mistake in his age.

Let Riddle assume he was sixteen because he was entering his sixth year at Hogwarts. But that pointed to the idea that Riddle didn't know much about him. Which made Izar uneasy. If Riddle didn't know Izar had skipped a grade due to above average intelligence, and that Izar was an Unspeakable, then what drew the man to him?

He chose not to disclose he was only fourteen. Well… fifteen in a few days.

"I suppose I will consider that a compliment," Izar continued without pause, "otherwise, you wouldn't be here."

Riddle suddenly reached forward.

Izar stiffened, but tried to hold himself immobile as Riddle traced his index finger down his jawline. His skin prickled like it had the night before when they’d shaken hands. Moreover, a fire in his belly erupted, and Izar struggled not to reveal his surprise. Fortunately, the man removed his hand quickly, an expression of bewilderment crossing his features before it was cleared away.

"Would you like some tea?" Tom questioned casually.

Before Izar could answer, the door opened to the conference room. Louis walked inside, holding a tarnished silver tea tray.

Izar was aware of the crimson eyes watching him, but he couldn't look away from the slack face of his childhood tormentor. Louis's blue eyes were dull and lifeless. There was a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth as he set down the tray of tea in front of Tom Riddle. "Master, your tea," the voice that spoke was just as void as the eyes.

Izar's lips thinned. "You put the Imperius curse on him," he accused, turning to look at the quietly smug Tom Riddle.

Izar wasn't upset over the fact that Riddle had used an Unforgivable.

He was upset because Louis was _his_ enemy, but Tom Riddle had gotten to him first.

"Fascinating…” Riddle’s long fingers plucked the chipped tea cup off the tray and set in in front of Izar. “That you would know that. The Unforgivables are not taught at Hogwarts, and I highly doubt the typical student ventures so far in the Restricted Section to stumble across them in texts. Which means you actively searched them out to sate your dark curiosity.”

Izar watched as Riddle calmly placed the second tea cup in front of himself. 

The older man then looked up at Louis and clicked his tongue in disapproval. “What are you waiting for? Pour the tea.”

The wizard’s voice took on a frighteningly cold tenor and the air turned heavy with ominousness. It was dark and oppressive, but not uncomfortable. Izar suddenly realized he had personally invited this danger into his life. He’d called out Riddle at the Ministry gala because his pride could not take a beating. He hadn’t appreciated the smug amusement from both Malfoy and Riddle.

But what had he thought? That Riddle wouldn’t have put a smart-mouthed fourteen-year-old in his place?

Honestly, if anything, he would have thought that Riddle wouldn’t have considered him important enough to waste the effort. Which begged the question—again—what Riddle saw in Izar that would be worth his time?

“The guest of honor first.” Riddle covered his cup before Louis could pour. “Serve your superior.” He observed Izar as Louis moved robotically and began pouring his tea. “You’re unusually quiet, Mr. Harrison,” the dark wizard mused. “You’re not frightened _yet,_ are you?”

“I’m not frightened. I am merely observing,” Izar said quietly.

The tea was poured haphazardly. Louis’ hands appeared to be tremoring as if he’d overexerted himself or—

Izar felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention.

"The lovely Muggle woman up front told me you were at work." Riddle took his tea from the table and sipped at it, his eyes all for Izar. "Where do you work?" The question was posed airily.

Izar dropped his gaze from the bright crimson in favor of staring at the steaming cup of tea.

Call him a coward. He wouldn’t care. He’d agree wholeheartedly.

Riddle was _unnerving._

“A Muggle restaurant.”

Riddle gave a low hum, his fingernails clicking once against the porcelain tea cup. His expression did not reveal whether he believed Izar or not. “I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of looking around the orphanage in your absence. It's such a quaint little home.” There was a dry sarcasm there and Izar grew stiff with suspicion. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. "Quite remarkable you were—"

Izar stood up abruptly, unable to stand the tension, nor the mocking. In his haste to stand, the table was jolted, causing the tea cups to clatter on their saucers and tea to slosh and spill. Riddle offered Izar a quietly unimpressed look before observing the tea spilling down and around the edge of the table. He slid his polished shoes away from the spill with slow and purposeful movements.

“Whatever you are doing here, just get on with it,” Izar demanded. “But if you’ve only come here to pick apart my lifestyle and ridicule me, you've wasted your time. I may be a Mudblood, but I am leagues ahead of many of your pure-blooded aristocrats.”

Riddle, who was still preoccupied with the mess near his shoes, slowly looked up at Izar.

The air turned cold.

It was his first warning before Riddle struck.

A hand was tightening around his jaw before he could blink. He was then maneuvered down, his knees slamming against the floor with merciless force. “‘Whatever I am doing here’?” Riddle repeated Izar’s demand with mocking amusement. “This is what you wanted, is it not? To catch a glimpse beneath the guise?”

The hand tightened around his jaw and Izar tried not to wince.

“You have a tongue on you that will need to be _disciplined,_ and a pride that needs blunting. I will not allow disrespect, but seeing as I came here to offer you a position within my ranks, I will allow for lenience just this once.”

“Position within what ranks?" Izar’s question came out as a muffled mumble with Riddle's fingers still clamping around his jaw.

Riddle removed his hand and offered Izar a distasteful look. “Stand up. Sit down.”

Izar rose from the ground, his knees aching as he forced himself back in the chair. He looked up at Riddle, watching as the man spelled away the spilt tea before sitting back across from him.

“You were right to assume my career was partly a charade.” Riddle recomposed himself, appearing as if he hadn’t just manhandled Izar to the ground with a single hand to his jaw. “Typically, I do not recruit personally, but you have piqued my interest. I would like you to become one of my followers. It is time we reconstruct the Wizarding world into something that will benefit our own kind.”

So, the lord-level wizard really was a—a _Dark Lord_.

Izar briefly thought of Grindelwald and grew excited.

How long had Riddle actively courted others? He must have a remarkable following by now. “What are your ideals?” Izar found himself asking. Riddle’s expression creased with minute disbelief, undoubtedly not accustomed to his ideal recruits asking questions instead of falling at his feet. “When do you plan an uprising? The _Prophet_ hasn't reported anything about you or your followers."

Riddle placed a hand over his mouth and rubbed the nonexistent stubble across his cheeks.

He stared listlessly at Izar, completely void of emotion in order to _hide_ a particularly strong emotion.

"I have time for a question or two,” he said, “just so long you keep your tongue in check."

As Izar opened his mouth, Riddle held up a hand, silencing him instantly.

“As I was about to say earlier, I had looked around your orphanage. I have the ability to see into minds and observe memories." Izar's spine stiffened. "You've had a troubled childhood just because you were different from the rest of them, did you not? This boy here—" The man motioned to Louis. "Especially, has created hell for you."

“You had no right—”

Riddle suddenly leaned forward, his eyes not at all sympathetic. "Do I come across as someone who cares about the privacy of others? You are a potential follower. I will know anything and everything about you." The man didn't wait for Izar to react before continuing. “What do you feel about Muggles, Izar?"

“You know what I feel,” he said numbly.

Red eyes brightened. “I want to hear you say it.”

Izar glanced at the mentally dead Louis before looking back at Riddle. “I hate them," he confessed. "I hate them for being ordinary. I hate them for being inferior, yet flaunting airs as if they’re superior. They are afraid—jealous—of us when they detect that we’re different. Their fear leads to the instinctual need to destroy the unknown. And that instinct is what I find terrifying. They’re growing smarter—more destructive as time goes by. What’s saying they will not find a way to destroy the group of people who they cannot possibly understand?”

Riddle stared at Izar for a long while.

“And that, Izar, is the root of our cause. Changing our society now to prevent the inevitable.” The man stood and approached Izar. "Tomorrow night is an initiation. A few other young wizards will be branded with my Mark. I confess that I look forward to having you within my ranks."

“Why?” Izar demanded. “I am mostly Muggle myself. I am not as pure as those like Lucius Malfoy.”

“Because you show remarkable promise and an understanding for what needs to be done.”

Riddle’s hand found Izar’s cheek again, palming it with barely-there pressure. That is, until a fingernail embedded into his skin and scraped along his cheekbone in painful claiming. The younger wizard refused to wince at the burning mark across his cheek, already finding much of his concentration focused on not trembling.

Izar hadn’t sensed magic this fascinating since Dumbledore. 

"I'm trembling from your magic." Izar felt as if he needed to explain, not wanting the man to think he was actually seduced and _awed_ with the prospect of joining his followers. “I still struggle from relapses. Powerful auras are often difficult to overcome.”

Riddle smirked. "No worries, Izar, I find you just as captivating."

The man pulled away swiftly, setting something on the table before disappearing promptly from the room.

Izar exhaled shakily, his body a trembling mess from the magic in the air. Fortunately, just like with Dumbledore, he would become accustomed to feeling the aura. The longer he was around Tom Riddle, the more comfortable he would become around the man's magic. Nothing like this should happen again. It had taken a year to settle down around Dumbledore, it would take Izar less for Riddle.

Charcoal-green eyes looked at the object on the table, sensing the pulse of magic coming from the black crystal hung from a small chain.

He knew it was a portkey.

As his hands settled, he reached for the chain and the bit of parchment underneath. He unfolded it once to reveal the elegant scrawl of writing.

_Let us set the time for seven thirty._

The portkey would activate at seven thirty tomorrow night. Izar stared at the chain, wondering the best course of action. Was it smart to pledge his loyalty to a wizard that would undoubtedly destroy—possibly slaughter many Muggles? The man was a Dark Lord, something the world hadn't experienced since the rise of Gellert Grindelwald. Just how many followers did he have? Enough to take on the Ministry? Enough to take on Dumbledore? Turning down the Dark Lord would also bring with it consequences…

He took one look at Louis, who stood lifelessly in the corner. "Louis.”

The boy slowly stepped forward. "Yes, Master?"

A lipless smile crossed Izar's face at the boy's submission. He could have fun with this. Knowing he would have to think longer—harder—about this initiation, he placed the humming chain around his neck anyway.

The chain all but purred at the action.


	4. Part One, Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited October 2020

**Part One, Chapter Four**

Izar began to second guess his decision to dive headfirst in this rebellion.

His adrenaline had long since diminished at the prospect of putting Muggles in their place. While Riddle hadn’t confirmed he intended to ‘kill and slaughter’ Muggles, the insinuations were there—from his total disregard of Louis to his approval of Izar’s abhorrence. His vow to change the Wizarding world was a tempting one—an exciting one. Stopping Muggles before _they_ could act against the magical community was an enticing move.

But as his adrenaline dissipated, and with Riddle’s magic no longer affecting him, Izar realized it wasn’t in his best interests to join. Taking the Mark of a future Dark Lord was… _foolish._ He worked at the Ministry, with Unspeakables, no less. As well, he was still a student attending Hogwarts under the sharp, observant eye of Dumbledore.

However, he couldn't blame his decision entirely on his association with Light wizards.

He knew there would be consequences for dabbling into an alliance with a Dark Lord, especially a Dark Lord that had _yet_ to prove himself in Izar's eyes. How did Izar know if Tom Riddle would be a successful Dark Lord? Yes, the man had power, but that did not mean Tom Riddle would be a formidable Dark Lord—a formidable leader.

Izar also needed more information on the rebellion itself.

He wasn't comfortable asking Tom Riddle about his concerns _._ The man had seemed intolerantly impatient during their meeting, and that was when the man claimed himself being ‘lenient’. How far could Izar question the man before Riddle got tired of his curiosity? Dark Lord's weren't known for their merciful lenience, or their kind disposition. They only cared about the number of soldiers.

Izar decided he needed to proceed with caution when turning down the Dark Lord. His refusal could go one of two ways.

Tom Riddle would see his absence tonight as a declaration of being an enemy.

 _Or_ the man would allow some time to pass before coming after him a second time with the promise of a Mark.

The latter seemed far from realistic, Izar knew. Riddle seemed proud. He seemed impatiently smug. Not many would turn him down, and those who did would likely be targeted. And even if Izar could think himself prepared for a Dark Lord after his blood, he was smart enough to know he _wasn't_ ready to hold off the dark forces by himself.

Which is why he arranged a plan for tonight. If he could pique the Dark Lord's interest a bit more…. perhaps the man wouldn't think so quickly to kill him for not attending tonight.

"Louis," Izar called with his eyes on the freshly inked parchment, "come here."

"Yes, Master." Louis—still under the Imperius—approached Izar at the desk.

"I have a very important task for you tonight.” He opened up his worn pocket watch, eyeing the time.

He ignored the monotonous response in favor of rereading his letter. In order to calm the Dark Lord’s instinctive insult at being denied, Izar used curiosity and intrigue as means to keep himself alive. In doing so, Izar had to reveal a few personal facts.

_While your talk of uprisings has stirred my interest, I must decline your Mark at this time. I wish to know more about you and your followers. And in order to do that, I have chosen to remain at a distance to observe. I am only fourteen, Mr. Riddle, and I have many years to pledge my service to you. I also have strong ties to the Ministry. Carrying your Mark at this time would be a heavy burden to bear._

_Please do not take my cautious curiosity as disinterest._

_Izar Harrison_

Was it pompous and entitled? Was it juvenile and cowardly? Yes. It probably was on all accounts. Izar grimaced, the glaring words of 'fourteen' catching his eye like a flaming beacon. He wanted Tom Riddle to take him seriously regardless of his age. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe this was for the best and he’d only see Izar as a child.

Raking his fingers through his hair, he folded the parchment and set the chain on top.

Two minutes before seven thirty.

The letter, he thought, didn't take a side. It didn't specify that Izar was refusing the man, it just sounded as if he needed more time. Which he did. But hopefully… hopefully the man would leave him alone. Surely the Dark Lord—after receiving the letter—would put Izar out of his mind.

“I want you to give this to Tom Riddle.” Izar's hands shook briefly as he handed the portkey and the letter to Louis.

No matter how anxious he was, Izar knew he made the right decision.

*** * * ***

Lucius clutched the file, feeling particularly proud of himself for his accomplishment. One advantage of being on the Hogwarts Board of Governors was his access to the students' files. The files updated themselves each year with new information regarding their subject. After the unanticipated initiation a week ago, Lucius had put in his request for Izar Harrison's file the day after.

Six days later, he received authorization.

He did not need to see the file. He knew of the contents, simply because he’d read them after the O.W.L. exams. The folder was for the Dark Lord after he had received a Muggle in place of Izar Harrison at the initiation. Though the wizard never commented on it, he had requested Lucius to obtain information on Izar.

The man may never show his interests, his emotions, and certainly not his favorites, but Lucius was smart enough to see the blatant obsession for the fourteen-year-old Ravenclaw.

"Come in," the man’s voice called from inside the office.

Lucius cast the desks surrounding the office a cold look before entering the private office of the Senior Undersecretary. Shutting the door quietly behind him, he eyed the large stack of files on the Dark Lord's desk. The man was bent over a piece of parchment, the useless spectacles on his face slipping down his nose while his quill moved with a charming flourish.

Clearing his throat, Lucius held up the folder with a gloved hand. "I have the file you requested, sir.” He was eager to see what the Dark Lord thought of the file.

The man paused, just briefly, before continuing to write. "On the boy?"

"The boy, yes," Lucius responded quietly.

The man gestured toward the stack of other files. "Just place it over there, I suppose I will get to it later." Outwardly, he appeared as if the file was a trouble—a mere burden.

Lucius’ mouth dropped into an 'awe' sort of understanding and his eyebrows lifted mockingly. "Well,” he started airily, “if you do not wish to look over it, I will simply return it to the archives." With a sharp nod to the Dark Lord, Lucius turned his heel to leave. And, if he wasn't mistaken, the Dark Lord would stop him just about—

"Lucius," the man's tone was silky, a dangerous sort of warning. "I said I would look over it later. Set it here, now."

Erasing his smug smirk from his face, Lucius turned back around and approached the desk. He purposely avoided the eyes focused on him as he set the file directly on top of the freshly-written ink. "It would be in your best interest, My Lord, if you read it right away. Regrettably, I only have an hour with the file."

"If I wished for you to hold my hand while I read the file, Lucius, I would have asked you to do so."

Nonetheless, the Dark Lord set his quill down and opened the file. The first thing the man sought was the birth date listed on the top of the file. As the child _had_ stated, he was fourteen—nearly fifteen.

The Dark Lord frowned.

Lucius took note of this. "If I may be so bold, My Lord, I would think you would be eager at the potential the child has shown for one so young. Instead, you seem… disappointed." There were times, when Lucius interacted with the Riddle persona, that he’d forgotten he was truly dealing with a Dark Lord. One did not make such forward observations to Lord Voldemort.

Charmed brown eyes looked up at him sharply. "Mind your place, Lucius."

Lucius bowed his head submissively, his eyes on the top parchment of the file. The file was not thick, as most students weren't. Yet, even Lucius could see a colored photo sticking out at the bottom. Just a sliver of it. His mouth turned downward.

That hadn’t been there previously.

Riddle turned the page, his eyes tracing over the O.W.L. scores. "Top marks for a child of his age. I suppose these were the exam results that allowed him to skip a year?"

Lucius nodded sharply. "The results were incredibly high, yet he remains in the shadows. A very curious case, considering Muggle-borns—even on a subconscious level—crave that sense of acknowledgment and approval from the Wizarding world. Draco informs me that Izar doesn't even form attachments at the school."

“There is nothing unusual about that. He doesn't strike me as the type to strut about the school.”

The next page contained the photo Lucius had glimpsed at earlier. It was the standard identification photo for Ministry employees. Evidently, the document was new to the file, for it hadn’t been in there when Lucius had possession of it several weeks prior.

His eyes traced the photograph. The Ministry identification photos were similar to that of the Azkaban snapshots, very similar indeed. The black cloak and the black background made the child's pale features stand out starkly as he held up his identification numbers. Lucius found his eyes dancing across the sharp-featured face.

He stood by his suspicions that Izar Harrison was _not_ a Mudblood. The boy was far too beautiful—far too unique for a wizard who carried dirty blood. He'd considered it before, but Izar Harrison looked remarkably similar to a—

"The Department of Mysteries," the Dark Lord murmured quietly as his fingers tapped against the Department logo on the photograph. "Tell me, Lucius, how you managed to leave out the fact the boy was an Unspeakable at the tender age of _fourteen_?"

Lucius stepped back defensively. “I hadn’t known, My Lord. This is clearly a new development. Is this not child exploitation?” And he had thought the Dark Lord recruited young. Evidently, the Ministry stuck their claws into the young just as well. “Working a child at the young age of fourteen is against child labor laws. Izar Harrison is a minor—with no legal guardian—he is illegible to work."

Riddle’s harsh gaze averted from Lucius to the smirking boy in the picture.

The man did not say anything for a long while. "You bring up a valid point, Lucius. The Ministry would find themselves in a predicament if this got out. However, I will not exploit this. Yet.”

“No?”

“There are many advantages to keeping this to ourselves. I already have one spy within the Unspeakables. Why not have two?" The Dark Lord closed the file. “Conversely, if the Unspeakables have enlisted the child in their services, there must have been a reason." Tom Riddle turned to look at Lucius. "It is my own misstep for assuming rather than researching the boy thoroughly before recruiting him."

“Do you believe Dumbledore and the Ministry have already influenced the boy?"

It would be such a pity.

Such a waste.

“I do not believe he is a wizard who follows or obeys easily. I would consider him more of a silent leader with an army of only himself. He's a loner and quite capable—and willing—to make his own way. As you said, he is not looking for recognition." Riddle handed the folder to Lucius, his lips molded into a thin line. "But I am confident I can persuade him to join our side.”

Persuade—in the Dark Lord’s vocabulary—merely meant _compulsion_.

Lucius took the file. “He would be a fool to turn away from your singular attentions, My Lord.”

Brown eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Remind me again, Lucius, why you are so interested in the child?"

“I'm drawn to him, My Lord," he replied unabashedly despite the heavy weight of scrutiny from the Dark Lord. "There is something unraveling here, and I yearn to see the outcome.” Which reminded him— “Are we still set for this school year? Draco is most excited and honored at your task you have bestowed him."

Riddle’s lips thinned and the corners of his mouth twitched. "I am still ready, Lucius, yet I have changed my mind." He tapped Izar Harrison’s file with precision. “I wish to use _him_ in our plans.”

Lucius remained expressionless, but he knew Draco would be most displeased.

*** * * ***

Izar shut the door behind him, shuddering with distaste.

 _“Two days past your deadline, Mr. Harrison, I'm a bit disappointed.”_ Fortunately, it was the end of the week, and Izar was happy to spend time at the orphanage as opposed to creating more Time-Turners at the Ministry. Owen hadn't requested him to make any more, and Izar assumed he could begin working on his own assignments come Monday.

He wouldn’t get his hopes up, however. He was sure Owen would have another project for him to do.

He just hoped it wasn’t bloody Time-Turners.

At least he wouldn't have to worry about wizarding politics this weekend. He hadn't heard or seen Tom Riddle all week. Louis hadn’t returned to the orphanage, and life had returned back to normal.

Izar pretended he was relieved.

His life was better drama-free, anyway.

Straightening from his slouched position, Izar was about to head toward the exit when he caught sight of the Death Chamber. Despite the room being open to all Unspeakables, Izar was still afraid to enter simply in fear of getting too caught up in the mystery of it all. His grey-green eyes swept the circular corridor before he approached the Death Chamber. Quickly, so he wouldn't change his mind, he placed his palm against the door, waiting for it to click open.

Izar entered the chamber, shivering at the drop of temperature. He would have been able to see his breath if the lighting wasn't so dim. He smiled lightly as he entered the room. As his feet glided over the uneven stone ground, he approached the middle of the room. The minimal light in the chamber was directed below, bathing the old archway in an uncanny glow.

Izar drank in the sight below as he stopped on the top of the stairs.

Stone steps led down into a pit where a dais sat, and on the center of the raised dais was the old stone archway—the Veil—standing tall. Izar chose to stay above ground, a distance away from the Veil, just in case he grew too curious.

He crouched down, greedily eyeing the tattered black curtain that hung from the archway. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the raspy whispers coming from inside the archway. Seeing the Veil gave him pleasant chills and a driving urge to understand that piece of old architecture. Someday, he would.

Everything in the room was silent, still, and cold.

Until—

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Izar stood up abruptly, surprised to see a woman sitting on one of the benches leading down to the dais. He had been so involved with the archway that he hadn't searched the chamber for another.

The first thing he noticed was how beautiful she would have looked if she wasn't so worn and thin. She was a frail-looking woman with long red hair and porcelain skin. Long, boney fingers wrapped around a roll of parchment, drawing attention to the stubby, short nails. Miserable eyes surveyed him through a curtain of limp hair. 

"It is," Izar replied, feeling as if his voice traveled the length of the room. "I assume the Death Chamber is your assigned area?”

Her magic wasn't very powerful. He'd sensed stronger, yet it was somehow familiar to him.

She gave him a small smile, her eyes sweeping the length of him. "You assumed right.” As she looked away, Izar noticed her expression all but crumbled. It hardened a moment later as she turned back to him. "I'm Lily Potter and you must be Izar Harrison."

It wasn't a question. And Izar wasn't surprised that she knew who he was. After all, most the Unspeakables were informed of his arrival before his first day. "Your husband, James, is an Auror, is he not?" Izar had vaguely recalled reading about James Potter. Apparently, he was an impressive combative wizard who had captured many Dark wizards in his young career.

"Yes, he is." Her eyes remained averted from his. “He enjoys the thrill of battle and is never one to sit still. I, on the other hand, tend to prefer the seclusion and mystery our occupation has to offer." Pausing just briefly, she asked, "I imagine you're the same? Not many people find the archway a beautiful place."

Izar turned away from her and back to the archway. "I find the Veil intriguing. Someday, I hope to study it."

Lily stood up from her perch, tucking a few rolls of parchment into a satchel. After pulling the strap over her shoulder, she climbed up the stairs toward Izar. "Perhaps I could speak to Owen Welder about relocating you here." Izar picked up that her tone was slightly tentative, as if she couldn't believe she was offering him. "You're only here for the summer, correct?"

It was if she were _humoring_ Izar.

Izar narrowed his eyes a bit. "Thank you, Mrs. Potter, but I think I'll pass. If I want to study here, I'll go to Mr. Welder myself." He offered her a nod before turning to leave the Death Chamber.

 _Really_.

Izar imagined Lily Potter—like all the other adults here who looked at him with condescending amusement—didn't believe he should be one of them. No one took him seriously. Exam scores meant nothing when it came to real life experiences. He was someone they would tolerate between terms, but otherwise, he was the one who’d complete the Time-Turners.

Someday, Izar would prove them wrong.

*** * * ***

When he returned to the orphanage that evening, a boy around ten years of age, came running up to Izar. He gazed coldly down at the Muggle. "Izar!" The boy's eyes were bright. "Louis came _back_!"

Izar stopped abruptly.

The orphanage had been in a tizzy when Louis had disappeared almost a week ago. Local authorities had searched for him, only to turn up empty handed. Izar had thought Tom Riddle had killed Louis, but apparently—

"He had blood _all_ over and he could barely walk!" The child babbled quickly, his breathing coming out in short, excited gasps. "And the man gave me this. He wanted me to give it to you!"

A crumpled piece of paper was shoved under Izar's nose. With a quickening pulse, Izar took it and slowly unfolded it. Only three words, in elegant scrawl, appeared on the small piece of parchment.

_So be it._

Even if the small message was loaded with possible meanings, Izar knew one thing.

The Dark Lord had _definitely_ not forgotten him.


	5. Part One, Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited October 2020

**Part One, Chapter Five**

Izar’s eyebrows pinched together in fierce concentration.

The glass just wouldn't _mold_ into shape. Every time he tried to measure the dimensions, they altered on him, making the glass plane impossible to mold with the rest of the material. Looking down at the contraption in his hands, he had to admit, this piece of invention was _unsightly_. But Izar wasn't a designer, and this _was_ his first draft. What mattered was the magic inside the—well—he’d come up with a name later.

The shape itself wasn't even defined as a circle or a box, but rather something in between with a few sharp corners…

His fingers stilled. A pair of gloating eyes reflected back at him in the piece of glass he held. It took him a moment to recognize the person staring back at him, and as he did, he dropped the piece of spelled glass, watching in horror as it shattered on the table.

It didn't explode as Izar had anticipated. It _should have_ bloody exploded if he had spelled it correctly. Inhaling deeply to control his frustration, he turned slowly, staring up at Tom Riddle with a mixture of surprise and irritation.

“Mr. Riddle," Izar greeted, “what are you doing down here?”

The first thing he wanted to ask was how the man knew he worked as an Unspeakable. But considering Izar hinted at his connections to the Ministry with his letter, this turnout was unsurprising. The man was only second to the Minister and would have access to the Ministry files.

What did the Dark Lord have in mind, exactly?

For a long moment, Riddle chose to remain silent, his eyes first observing the project in Izar's hands and then taking a longer time to examine his face. "Your lunch period is approaching in a matter of minutes, is it not?"

Izar pursed his lips, setting down his tools. They didn't do him much good anyway.

"I wasn't planning on taking a lunch break today, sir," he said respectfully. “As you can see—”

“A lunch break is clearly much needed.”

Around them, Unspeakables paused in their work at the interruption. Their cool stares assessed the situation quickly before going back to their work. Some shared looks, while others shook their heads. Izar found he did not appreciate the silent communication.

Riddle smiled politely. "I would most enjoy your presence, Mr. Harrison."

It was an order coated with a sweetly sugared tone. Izar gave a light sigh as he stood from his bench. Perhaps a break would do him some good. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had any choice in the matter.

As Izar followed Riddle, he passed the Unspeakables still working at their benches. Their inventions looked a hell of a lot better than his own. Izar was curious to know what they were constructing and the functions of each of their inventions. But it was an unspoken rule that everyone kept quiet about their works. Inside and outside the Ministry.

Once they reached the lift, Riddle reached over and placed a hand upon Izar’s head. A Disillusionment Charm trickled cold tendrils of imaginary liquid down Izar’s head, causing the younger wizard to shiver. “Just a precaution,” Riddle murmured, patting Izar once more as if reassuring him he knew exactly where to find him despite the Charm. “At this point in time, it is best if less people see you and I together.”

With that, the Dark Lord turned back forward once a wizard joined them on the eighth floor.

Izar recognized the benefits of not being seen with Riddle in too many public places, and yet...

Glancing at the Dark Lord next to him, he could not discern anything on the Dark Lord’s expression. Was he furious with Izar? Feeling murderous because Izar had not taken the Mark? It was impossible to tell. The only thing putting Izar at ease was the man’s magic. It was calm and tranquil today. As well, there had been several Unspeakables who had seen Riddle lead Izar away.

If Riddle was going to kill him, he wouldn’t have allowed so many people to witness their departure.

When the lift finally came to an abrupt halt, Riddle escorted Izar out, his taller frame dwarfing the younger wizard as they swarmed through the mass of workers moving toward the Ministry’s cafeteria. Izar noted several people stopping and staring at Riddle—as if startled at the popular politician’s mundane desire to eat with common-folk—while others tried to wave him down.

Riddle moved quickly past, pretending he did not see them. He pressed close to Izar, his hand persistent and firm against his shoulder. “I hope you don't mind if we eat at one of the Ministry’s subsidiaries. I find the cafeteria food rather bland and far too public.”

The Ministry contracted with several cafés and restaurants. Izar didn’t know their names—had never planned on eating anywhere for lunch, as he hadn’t had the disposable income. Yet Riddle dragged him toward one of the numerous doorways located toward the back of the cafeteria. As they phased through the doorless archway, they entered a café that was entirely out of Izar’s capability of comprehending.

Dishes and drinks zoomed gracefully overhead, utensils were sparkling, the tablecloths were giving off a rich sheen, and everyone was dressed immaculately. The place reeked of wealth and Izar found himself afraid to breathe and dirty it.

“Have you eaten at the _Incantation_ before?” Riddle ushered Izar forward by sliding his hand from Izar’s shoulder to the small of his back.

Izar tensed at the physical contact, not at all used to touches, caresses, or anything remotely similar. Nonetheless, he tried to ignore the controlling hand on his back. "No, I don't have the luxury to dine out.” He studied the golden cutlery and empty dishes in front of vacant, decorated seats. “Especially at a café that looks as if they serve food upon gold dishware."

"Then consider it a birthday gift," Riddle remarked lightly. He nodded toward the hostess who stood at the front podium. She all but simpered at the sight of him, bowing her head as he passed the long line of waiting customers.

No one complained once they caught sight of who was skipping the line.

Izar felt odd as he passed the group of customers. Granted, they wouldn’t notice him with the Disillusionment Charm, but that did not erase the uncomfortable feeling. Never had he had the privilege to walk out of turn, to be served out of turn. And he never had the privilege to have his own table at a fancy café like Riddle.

The secluded table was located in the back of the café, mostly obscured by a tall, stone pillar.

"A birthday gift?" Izar repeated questionably, not at all sure what the man was getting at.

Riddle motioned for him to sit. “For your birthday. Today.” His tone was clearly amused, if not a bit discouraged. "Surely you did not forget your fifteenth birthday.”

After taking his own seat, Izar took a mental note of the date and realized Riddle was correct. It _was_ his birthday. August 16th. The orphanage caretakers had stopped wishing him a happy birthday at the age of ten, and Tom Marvolo Riddle was the first person outside the orphanage to ever wish him a Happy Birthday. “Quite frankly, my birthday was the last thing on my mind."

"And what…" Trialing off, Riddle leaned forward and placed a hand on Izar’s head. The man’s wandless magic tremored and the hot sensation of the breaking Disillusionment Charm trickled down his head. " _Is_ on your mind?"

_You, mostly._

Izar looked down and away from Tom Riddle’s intense scrutiny as a waitress approached. With her came two levitating steaming cups of tea that were placed in front of Izar and Riddle. Her eyes remained lowered as she also placed two menus on the table. With a small curtsey, she left without a word, as if knowing how Riddle preferred to be served. 

Watching her go, Izar contemplated on how to interact with Tom Riddle.

He wasn't skilled in the art of socializing or dancing politically with an Undersecretary to the Minister _or Dark Lords._ Loathe as he was to admit it, Izar was slightly thrilled to endure the man's attention again. Any man or women would be _flattered_ that a Lord was giving them attention, especially after refusing their Mark.

He chanced a glance upward, catching the charmed brown eyes still waiting for an answer. “Work. Mostly. Among other things.” He reached for his cup of tea, giving both himself and his hands a needed distraction.

"Yes, your work." Riddle’s eyes brightened. "The Unspeakables. Tell me, how did you find yourself in their grasp?”

Izar had to remind himself that Riddle was a seducer. It was his intention to make those he recruited feel important and exclusive. Regardless of his intentions, Izar decided to play along. “It isn’t entirely unusual for Unspeakables to recruit students when they are still enrolled in Hogwarts—”

“Fourteen?”

Izar stirred his tea. “Broderick Bode was the youngest Unspeakable recruit. He had just turned fourteen. The Department screens for wizards or witches who are inclined to perform well with experimental magic and innovations. They contacted me after I took my O.W.L.s.” He paused. “It’s mostly menial tasks now, but I get paid for it. It gives me experience.”

Silence.

When he looked up, he noticed the man’s attention was on Izar’s spoon and his restless stirring. Immediately, Izar dropped the spoon with a clatter, feeling his face heat up.

“There is no reason to undersell your abilities,” Riddle said.

“I’m not trying to sell _anything_.” He peered closely at Riddle, wanting to know what—exactly—was driving the man. “I don’t know what you’ve heard from others, but I am no genius. I just happen to have an aptitude with magic. It comes easily to me. Being young does not make it any more of a remarkable feat than if I were an adult.”

“And that bothers you, does it not?” The all-knowing eyes seemed to peer through Izar. “Being reminded you are a mere child. That you are not meant to do—or accomplish—feats that are normally reserved for adults. When you manage to demonstrate these capabilities, you get a pat on the back in congratulations, yet all goes back to normal and you are once again treated like a child.”

Izar felt his insides quiver with excitement and suspicion.

"You're a Legilimens," he stated darkly.

He envied Legilimens. He had never excelled in that art and he grew envious of the wizards who managed to excel. Both Dumbledore and Severus Snape were skilled Occlumens and Legilimens. Izar always felt exposed before both men. Exposed and defenseless.

"I am," Riddle acknowledged easily. "But I am not in your mind.” He turned his attention on his tea and hooked a finger at the edge of the saucer, sliding it closer. “I understand you well, simply because I was once a child.”

Izar scoffed with amusement.

An indulgent smile curled Riddle’s mouth. “Orphans are a different breed of child. We learn young to stand on our own.” He curled his long fingers around the handle of his cup, entirely ignorant to the sharp interest he’d garnered from Izar. “We hate being treated as children because we have gone through many adult trials. We have a desperate need to prove ourselves. We no longer want to be separated from the masses as orphaned children, but rather as formidable and imposing adults.”

He hadn’t known. “You were—”

“Yet you _are_ still a child,” Riddle cut him off smoothly, quirking a brow as he tasted the tea. “You have accomplished great feats for one so young, but you are still growing—learning.” He looked at Izar from the corner of his eye. “And I greatly look forward to seeing what else you have to offer.”

There was something unspoken there.

Izar stared, finding himself at a loss at the intensity and the secrecy Riddle exuded. Was this all part of the seducing? Was this one big show and demonstration he performed for all the other followers? To flatter, entice, and allude to something more?

Before he could think further on it, the waitress returned to take their orders. Riddle ordered something in French and Izar—not having looked at the menu yet and certainly not entirely fluent in French—simply ordered the same. That seemed to amuse Riddle greatly, which led Izar to the conclusion he’d just ordered something utterly revolting.

Or, as the waitress returned a moment later, illegal.

She placed the alcohol in front of Izar without question and promised to return with their food in just a short bit.

Riddle smirked into his glass without saying anything. Or rather, he let the humiliation settle properly before— “Here is to the first step into adulthood.” He lifted his glass in mock toast, waiting for Izar to try—whatever it was.

Instead, Izar turned up his nose and slid the glass toward the Undersecretary. “I ordered it for you. Figured you may need the added support in dealing with Ministry politicians.”

That earned a pleased chuckle from the older wizard who graciously took the tumbler.

They sat in a comfortable silence, both nursing their drinks while listening to the comfortable buzz of conversation from the other café patrons. Izar tried to refrain from anxiously stirring his tea again, having sensed Riddle’s eyes focused on his averted face. The stare all but branded his skin, easily putting him on edge. “Are you going to come out and say it? Or do I have to address it first?” Izar asked. “Birthday or no birthday, you brought me here for a very specific reason.” 

Riddle squinted, humored at Izar’s boldness. “You didn’t take long to crack.”

“I don’t enjoy people looking at me like that.”

“Oh? And do you find that many people look at you in such a way?” Riddle wondered. “Or do you just grow bashful at attention in particular?”

“I am not bashful.” Izar suddenly wished he hadn’t given away the drink.

“I think you are. You’re unaccustomed to the spotlight and go out of your way to avoid it.” Riddle placed down his glass. “Perhaps it best we get you acclimated to public attention. After all, you want to make a name for yourself, don’t you?”

“When there is something worth being proud of, I’ll endure the public attention,” Izar replied. “Until that time—”

“Who says you will be prepared at that time?”

Izar finally looked away from his tea and leveled Riddle with a firm look. “I say.”

Riddle’s lips parted into a smile.

The waitress arrived with their lunch and Izar examined the entrée. It looked like chicken, though he wasn’t sure he could trust it to be so simple. He ate it anyway, taking small bites and exploring the unfamiliar flavors of the dish. It wasn’t like the food at Hogwarts—which was far more savory and heartier—nor was it like the orphanage food in its bland glory.

“There is another initiation tonight. I would like you there.” 

_Ah._

Izar’s shoulders stiffened.

“Whatever doubts, whatever uncertainties you have—as you expressed in your letter—I will address them now.” Riddle placed down his cutlery. “I will not disclose the number of my followers, but there is a vast majority. I am confident we will hold our own against opposing forces.”

He sounded so sure, so confident. It was hard to imagine there was going to be a war, but it was time Izar realize that sides needed to be drawn. “And when will you act?”

“At the right time.”

Understandable. He wouldn’t give Izar any details. “You—you just want to change how society views Muggles?”

“I want us separated completely from Muggles. I want wizards and witches to be able to practice Dark magic without having to concern themselves over its legality. Restrictions over what can and cannot be learned is a violation of our rights. It is time for the darkness to thrive, Izar. It is time for wizards to become the top of the hierarchy. And besides…”

Riddle suddenly leaned forward, his eyes alight with malicious excitement.

“Wouldn’t it be _fun_?”

Izar’s knife slipped as he was unexpectedly caught up in Riddle’s energy. Would it be…fun? What kind of question was that? Would war—would death—be fun? Would it be exciting to destroy lives and the Wizarding world’s very infrastructure?

Well.

Yes.

Izar smiled softly, lowering his lashes and looking back at his lunch. “I get to be _branded_ on my birthday. What a particularly rememberable gift.” Because they both knew Riddle would not tolerate another soft rejection. Riddle got what he wanted, Izar realized. And for some very strange reason, he saw it important that a fourteen—no—fifteen-year-old boy get his Mark.

“Trust me, child, having you wear my Mark is far more a gift to me than it is for you.”

His ears turned warm at both the tone and the insinuations.

It was strictly about numbers for Riddle.

That was all.

He was just one of many.

*** * * ***

Izar returned to the Department of Mysteries after a surprisingly enjoyable lunch break.

Despite the overwhelming reminder that he would no longer be a free man tomorrow, he had enjoyed Riddle's presence—as haughty and arrogant as it had been. But surely it wasn't the _true_ Tom Riddle. Their interactions were fake, like a performance. The Dark Lord couldn't possibly be this friendly to his followers. They were all below him, after all. It was about receiving their loyalty.

He also came to the conclusion that there wouldn't be any dramatic alterations once he got the Mark.

He would still be the same Izar, completely independent and free. He would just need to answer to a Master on occasion. It would be inconvenient, perhaps, but it wouldn't change his life so dramatically. Moreover, he would be at Hogwarts for the next two years. Izar was more than certain the Dark Lord wouldn't make Izar and his other followers leave Hogwarts to attend a meeting.

It was impossible to be done. And that was Izar's safety net.

He would be returning to Hogwarts in a few days. And by that time, he would have more than several months _away_ from the Dark Lord.

Denying the Mark a second time—especially with Riddle’s unusual persistence—would prove impossible. He could have run to Dumbledore. He was familiar enough with the Headmaster to feel comfortable doing so. And yet, Izar was _curious._ His hand may have been forced, but that did not abolish his curiosity on what this all involved.

Riddle even said he’d be Izar’s source in the Ministry if he needed assistance. As well, there was someone at Hogwarts who would be there if Izar ever needed aid.

"Don't be so smug," a voice leered in the shadows.

Izar stiffened, turning his heel slowly toward the Unspeakable behind him. The man's short hair was coated with a film of grease, drawing attention to his sunken and pale face. His expression was that of indifference, almost boredom. Izar dimly recalled his name. Augustus Rookwood. The Unspeakable who worked in the Time and Space Chambers.

"Excuse me?" Izar replied coldly.

The man grinned, revealing rotting teeth. Rookwood made a quick jerk with his arm and Izar tensed, ready to defend himself if the man pulled out a wand. He need not have worried, for his eyes zeroed in on the sleeve Rookwood pulled up. On the man's thin and pale forearm sat a dark tattoo. It was dim in the Department of Mysteries, but Izar could make out the slithering serpent emerging from the mouth of a skull.

"The Dark Mark," Rookwood whispered hoarsely. "You aren't the only one the Dark Lord sought after. Many of us have been favored with luxurious lunches and bathed with his attentions." Rookwood pulled his sleeve back down. "As soon as this Mark is on your skin, be prepared to be cast away. He will continue on with his next prey."

Izar's jaw clenched and his shoulders stiffened at the cryptic warning.

It didn't matter. He enjoyed the shadows—just as Riddle had predicted. He excelled best when the attention was away from him. It wouldn't have mattered if he was cast away from the Dark Lord after he took the Mark. In fact, it didn't sound all that bad.

"You seem to be rather sour," Izar drawled. "Almost as if you don't look highly upon the Dark Lord anymore."

Rookwood gave a small laugh. "I will lay my life down for our Lord, boy. I am merely giving you a friendly warning not to get too drunk off his attention. It can destroy a man." Rookwood paused, his eyes narrowing into slits as he surveyed Izar. "The more I look at you, the more familiar you appear. What was your surname? Sure you’re a Muggle-born?"

Izar cast the man a unfriendly look. He didn't want to _speak_ about his parents. He had his own suspicions about his parents, and those suspicions did not settle well with Izar. Not after he tried to track them down in his third year. Not after that potion…. Not…..

He grimaced, pushing those memories away.

He _was_ a Muggle-born.

"Rookwood, don't you have to get back to your Chamber?" a new voice interrupted.

Izar turned to Lily Potter, eyeing her as she stood her ground. Her petite frame was exaggerated with her heavy black robe, and her deep, auburn hair had the same layer of grease that Rookwood’s hair possessed. Neither of the two seemed to take much pride in their appearance.

"Speaking of _Muggle-borns_ ," Rookwood murmured quietly, his eyes raking over Lily with revulsion.

Augustus then gave Izar one last searching look before turning and entering the Space Chamber.

Clear emerald eyes turned to Izar. The Ravenclaw noted the dark circles under Lily Potter's haunted eyes. Something must have happened for her to lose such hold of herself. Was James Potter not as great as a man as the books and _Prophet_ claimed?

"I don't need your help," Izar said quietly.

Her shoulders hunched miserably, yet her eyes remained steadfast on Izar. "I came to ask for your assistance today. My partner has been ill this week. I need someone to assist me with my work. Would you mind helping? Not many are willing to be so close to the Veil."

Immediately, Izar's mood shifted. "I have been preoccupied with my own experiments," he replied shortly. He watched as Lily smiled softly, her cracked lips stretching knowingly. He returned the smile just briefly. "But I don't think I can pass up an opportunity to work in the Death Chamber."

He followed her inside the Death Chamber, his mind effortlessly turning away from the ominous aspects of today, eager to learn more about the Veil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😅 I had believed editing Death of Today would be a breeze. Just correct a few things and call it good. But there are quite a bit of incredibly cringe-worthy scenes that I can’t possibly let go. Many revisions are needed (at least in the earlier chapters—I am not sure what waits for me in the later chapters). 
> 
> If, for whatever reason, you haven’t read Death of Today on FanFiction, I would strongly suggest not doing so and waiting for the revised/edited updates. 
> 
> Thanks much!


	6. Part One, Chapter Six

**Part One, Chapter Six**

Izar drank in the atmosphere of the Death Chamber, paying special attention the fluttering Veil. He’d never ventured down the stairs before, having always been leerily intrigued enough to keep a distance. Unfortunately, before he could get closer, Lily Potter suddenly stopped on the last stair and turned toward him.

“You'll be going back to Hogwarts as a fifth year, correct?"

Did she—

Was she starting _small talk?_

“Sixth year.”

“But I thought you were fifteen."

While it was dark inside the chamber, Izar could see her indecision. Clearly, she knew his birthdate, yet she alluded to a general assumption. Why hide the obvious that she had snooped into his personal information?

"I skipped a year," Izar replied as he moved past her and toward the elevated stone dais. Upon closer inspection, the archway looked even more magnificent. The stone had crumbled near the base, appearing as if it had surpassed the age of time. "Do the Unspeakables in this chamber typically find any discoveries? I wouldn’t think it would be easy to determine the Veil’s secrets."

"That is true.” She stopped and hovered at Izar’s shoulder. “So far, only general knowledge is known about the Veil. Many of us dedicate time in other chambers. The Veil will decide who gets to unearth its secrets…” she trailed off uncertainly.

His attention turned from Lily to the Veil, finding himself spellbound. Faint, raspy whispers caressed his ears, tickling his senses and arousing his attention. As he took another step closer to the fluttering Veil, his tongue ventured out to lick his suddenly cold lips.

"Izar," Lily croaked, her tone sounding almost desperate, yet there was a hint of resignation in her tone. "Step back. Now."

Even if he heard her warning—her plea—Izar could do nothing but watch—mesmerized—as the Veil quivered in an almost eager manner. From the other side, fingers appeared to reach out and caress the torn and worn Veil.

Hazily, Izar raised his own fingers.

He knew any physical contact made with the Veil would result in being drawn to the other side. There was no coming back from that. The knowledge did not stop him, however. His fingers shakily brushed the tattered Veil, earning a frantic scream from Lily. For the seconds Izar maintained contact with the Veil, he marveled at how silky it felt as it moved between his fingers like water.

And it was cold. So cold.

He was torn harshly away from the Veil by thin arms.

Distressed green eyes thrust themselves in Izar's face. "What were you _thinking_?"

He blinked stupidly back at her.

"You _know_ the consequences of coming too close to the Veil." She took a few steadying breaths before releasing his shoulders. "Many men and women have gone insane standing in front of the Veil. They claim they can hear their deceased loved ones on the other side, beckoning them to cross the barrier between the living and the dead. Those who cross are never seen again."

"I know that," Izar whispered, trying to regain his sense of logic. "But what I’m more curious about," he started, narrowing his eyes on her, “is how I could hear the whispers so clearly if I had never seen death? If I don’t have a deceased loved one beckoning me from the other side? Somehow, I was still drawn forward. How is that?"

"I don't know," her tone dropped a few levels and he easily detected her lie. “You must be attuned to death—”

" _Liar,"_ Izar hissed with clenched fists. "You brought me here for a reason, didn't you? It wasn't to help you with your work. What help could I possibly offer you?" He paused, his mind quickly coming up with the first logical answer. "Was I some sort of test subject for you? I admit it was a rather brilliant ploy luring me here for your own study, knowing how much I was interested in the Veil."

The redhead’s demeanor suddenly turned cold as she observed his twisted smirk. “Get out.” Her green eyes were alight with anger as she pointed toward the exit. “Get out, and never, _never_ come back here."

“It will be my pleasure," he replied curtly, turning his shoulder and climbing up the stairs.

It was a long walk up to the exit, and by the time he reached the door, he’d calmed somewhat.

To think he’d been naïve enough to become Lily Potter’s lab rat…

Perhaps she had wanted to see the impacts on others after she had cast a specific spell around the Veil. Perhaps she had successfully found a way for someone to _touch_ the Veil without falling into the other side. Of course, there was also the possibility that it hadn't been an experiment at all. Her heated and affronted reaction after he accused her of using him had pointed to her innocence.

But…

Izar looked down at his hands.

It didn't explain why his fingers were black and still tingling.

*** * * ***

Several hours later, back at the orphanage, he was still agitated about what had transpired in the Death Chamber. His leg swung impatiently over the edge of his bed as he examined his fingers. They weren't as black as they had been this afternoon. Only a faint stain remained behind, resembling bruises more than anything else. Except they didn't hurt and they were no longer cold and numb.

The door opened to his bedroom and Izar sighed irately, not looking up.

The boy he shared his room with—Brantley— _knew_ better.

"I told you to leave me _alone_.”

After his eyes adjusted to the shadowed entrance, they widened when he realized that it wasn't Brantley, but a figure that blended seamlessly with the dark. For a moment, he held his breath, confusion clouding his mind as he tried to grasp who the hooded figure was. It didn’t take him long, however, to identify that _magic._ Mortified, he scrambled up from his bed, cringing when the bedframe groaned loudly.

“Sir!” He stood stiffly. “I didn't know you were coming."

After his lunch with Riddle, Izar realized he hadn't received a portkey for the initiation tonight. He hadn’t known _what_ to expect, but he certainly hadn’t expected the Dark Lord to escort him to the meeting.

It seemed almost—

Like favoritism.

Recalling Rookwood’s taunting from earlier that afternoon—regarding the Dark Lord’s special treatment of new recruits—Izar reasoned the wizard’s presence wasn’t entirely unusual. 

The Dark Lord carried himself differently tonight. He was no longer the seductive and charming politician, but rather a powerful wizard unafraid of displaying his magic. The dark aura made the bedroom feel smaller—the shadows more precarious. Izar stiffened further, feeling uneasy and overwhelmed. Should he remain standing? Should he get on his knees? The magic seemed to beat down on him, encouraging him to fall to the ground. But he was not yet marked—so why would he kneel?

His uncertainty made him immobile.

"I had intended for one of my men to escort you to the initiation, however, my plans have changed.” Even the man's voice seemed to change with his persona, adopting a very faint hissing resonance. “I'm afraid I will be departing Britain after the meeting. I won't have time thereafter to present you with your birthday gift."

Izar hesitated.

Gift?

Was gift-giving still in the realm of a master courting a new servant?

"Lunch was more than generous.” He watched as the Dark Lord extracted something from his pocket and enlarged it. Long, tapered fingers unwrapped the cloth and revealed a dark leather-bound book with pages that seemed to glitter like gold. “Is that…" Izar trailed off, speechless as he reached for the tome.

Before his fingers could come in contact with that delectable leather, his wrist was shackled firmly. Izar’s eyes averted from the book to the man, wondering if he’d overstepped his boundaries.

"What happened?" The Dark Lord turned Izar’s wrist around to inspect his blackened fingers.

“It’s just from an experiment," he said, skirting the issue without lying outright. After all, the wizard _was_ a Legilimens. His attention dropped back to the book in an attempt to avoid the issue. "Is this what I think it is?"

Evidently, he had succeeded in changing the subject, for the strong fingers released his wrist. The Dark Lord chuckled and handed the book to Izar. "If you are thinking of the _Eruditio_ , then yes, you are correct _._ "

Izar accepted the heavy tome from the man and stared at it with wide-eyed disbelief. "This is incredibly rare, sir—” A sudden though occurred to him. “How do I address you? When you’re not Tom Riddle?”

Surely the wizard wasn’t going to be addressed as ‘Tom’, though he supposed there were more peculiar things than a ‘Dark Lord Tom’.

Beneath the man’s hooded cloak, a slow and unnerving smile stretched. “When it is just the two of us, you may address me as Voldemort.”

 _Voldemort. When it was just the two of them._ Izar knew exactly what the Dark Lord did not say. In public—at least in the setting with the other followers—Izar was to address him as his master and lord.

He looked back down at the book, refocusing on something more agreeable. He thumbed gently at the pages, revealing the yellowed and blank interior. The _Eruditio_ harbored a vast amount of information on nearly every subject, having been added to by numerous of academically gifted wizards and witches throughout the centuries. All the reader had to do was tap their wand against the cover and state what subject they wished to read about. The pages would then be filled with the applicable information.

It was akin to having an entire library at one’s fingertips.

There were only about a dozen copies of the _Eruditio,_ costing far more Galleons than Izar would ever manage to obtain. “It’s too much.” He closed the book and his fingers caressed the strong-smelling leather. “Surely there is someone else—”

“I would not gift it to you if I believed another was more deserving.” A cold finger tapped the underside of his chin, forcing Izar’s gaze away from the book. “And it is my expectation that you give me your loyalty in turn.” 

And then Izar realized this wasn't so much a birthday gift as it was an enticement. Rookwood _was_ right. The Dark Lord wanted his loyalty and would play on Izar’s weaknesses and interests to obtain said loyalty. His lips twitched, unsurprised and not entirely affronted. He wasn’t going to refuse the gift, especially when he was returning it with his pledge of servitude.

He nodded. "Of course you have my loyalty, My Lord. Thank you for the gift. I will treasure it forever.” 

" _Forever_ ," Voldemort echoed, sounding pensive and somber. "Be sure you do that." The man dropped his hand from Izar's chin. "Come, child, it’s time for the initiation."

Izar placed his first and only birthday gift securely under his mattress before turning toward the Dark Lord. He hesitated when he saw the outstretched hand waiting for his own. It represented both an invitation of elusive promises and a warning of unknown consequences. When Izar accepted the hand, Riddle’s fingers curled greedily around his.

They disapparated from the orphanage together.

*** * * ***

The fortress was as Izar suspected it would be.

Dark, old, and cold.

Spider webs claimed the corners and the ceilings, appearing so thick, they looked like aged mold. His trepidation grew as he walked down the uncanny corridor beside a silent Lord Voldemort. Frankly, he didn't know what was expected of him. How should he act? Were there specific customs or rituals? How many people were in the Dark Lord’s ranks? How many were going to be there tonight? What if someone turned on the Dark Lord and told others of Izar’s identity?

"There is no need to be uneasy," the Dark Lord murmured knowingly. "No harm will come to pass when I am at your side."

Izar glanced sideways at the man, who, in turn, kept his gaze forward.

“I don’t—”

He faltered uncharacteristically as he caught sight of two people at the end of the corridor. Even with the heavy black robe, Izar knew one of the figures to be Lucius Malfoy. The blond hair all but radiated in the dark, the subtle light settling around the man like a halo. But Lucius Malfoy wasn't the one who caught Izar's attention.

It was the woman standing next to him.

Black eyes locked with charcoal-green.

A maniacal grin crossed the woman's face, effectively marring her attractive features. Observing her, Izar noticed her face was the only attractive thing about her. Clearly, she didn’t put much care into her appearance, judging from the smeared makeup around her eyes and her tattered wardrobe. Her hair was just as disheveled, piling haphazardly on top her head in a mess of thick, black curls. 

She tapped a long fingernail against her smirking mouth as she eyed Izar.

Izar stopped walking.

"My Lord!” Her eyes sparkled with inane excitement. “What have you brought us?” She sashayed forward, her gaze sweeping the length of Izar and taking care to study his features. "I didn't think I would ever see the bastard child of my estranged cousin…"

Izar stiffened at both the proclamation and the sight of a younger wizard entering the corridor behind Lucius Malfoy. Just his luck that it turned out to be _Draco Bloody Malfoy._

"Bellatrix…" Lucius warned, yet he appeared both smug and intrigued as he observed Izar in a new light.

Just the same, the Dark Lord remained vigilantly silent.

When Bellatrix opened her mouth again, Izar clenched his fists and his gaze unfocused defensively. "When I heard Lucius mention his suspicions about a Mudblood by the name of 'Izar' being initiated into our Lord’s circle, I could only speculate. But seeing the black curls, grey eyes, and the delicate little features of Regulus only confirms it." Her mouth twitched in amusement. “The Mudblood bitch even decided to name you after the Black traditions."

She not only knew his father, but also his mother.

Izar inhaled deeply to settle his surge of emotion.

Voldemort clicked his tongue in disapproval. "That is enough, Bellatrix.”

Bellatrix glanced innocently up at the Dark Lord and her entire demeanor turned acquiescent. “I thought you should know, My Lord,” she whispered sweetly. “Especially after Regulus’ betrayal. Do you really want his _bastard_ in your services?" Her gaze slid over to Izar. "History has a way of repeating itself, after all. Regulus may be dead, but he lives on through his son."

"You must be rather bold—or unwise—to suggest the Dark Lord can't think for himself," Izar whispered darkly.

Bellatrix's eyes widened and then narrowed into pleased slits.

Before she could retort, Voldemort’s cold voice interceded. “I want you all in the chamber. _Now_."

The two Malfoy's took one last glance at Izar before disappearing into the chamber. As soon as they were out of sight, Izar loosened his stance, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. This wasn't how he wanted to find out about his parentage. He most certainly didn't want Lucius and Draco Malfoy finding out alongside him. Not to mention the Dark Lord was all ears.

“You didn’t know, did you? Poor little orphan.”

Izar looked sharply back up at Bellatrix.

“Did you want to know the identity of your mother? The one who gave you to a _Muggle_ orphanage after Regulus' death?" Bellatrix took an advancing step around the Dark Lord, leaning dangerously close to Izar. "I knew it all, because I witnessed their pathetic affair…" She whispered delightedly into his ear, “Your mother is _Lily Potter."_

She licked Izar's ear.

His eyes widened and the blood drained from his face.

" _Crucio,”_ Voldemort cursed with twisted vehemence.

Through half-lidded eyes, Izar watched as Bellatrix fell to her knees, her face twisting in agony and hilarity. Her scream was high-pitched before trailing off with wicked and pained laughter. He took a step backward, feeling the world spin. While he would have enjoyed her torture any other time, he found it the crashing point.

He took a few more steps backward, more than aware of the crimson eyes following his retreat.

It took him another scream from Bellatrix to turn and walk quickly away. He didn't know where he was going and he frankly didn't care. The dark shadows swallowed him as he turned the corner and pressed himself against the wall. Bellatrix’s screams were just as loud here as they were standing next to her, yet Izar tuned her out and focused on controlling his breathing.

There were no prying eyes as his body tremored—a result of holding himself so rigid and uncaringly.

Izar pressed himself more firmly against the wall. He needed to remain strong. He couldn't have Bellatrix seeing a broken orphan boy, a bastard to the Black family name.

He shuddered again, feeling his throat tighten as he recalled his third year at Hogwarts.

He had wanted to know who his Muggle parents were, so he had brewed a hereditary potion typically reserved for NEWT level students. It had taken him almost the entire school year and three botched batches before succeeding. Izar was certain Snape had noticed a reduction in his supplies, but he had never commented on it.

It wouldn't have mattered, anyhow.

Izar remembered staring at the blank parchment after he had completed the potion. Nothing had appeared on the family tree aside from the name ‘Izar Harrison’. He had known then that he wasn't a Mudblood. It had been a sickening revelation that one of his parents had been magical and smart enough to block his ancestry. It was an advanced Charm, one only accomplished by an experienced witch or wizard. 

After that, Izar had continued to think of himself as a Muggle-born. His parents had abandoned him intentionally, why else would they prevent a hereditary potion from revealing his genealogy? 

It had been easier to think himself born to two Muggles than be a product of a shameful one-night stand. But tonight… Tonight had been the largest blow. Izar didn't care so much about his father. From what Bellatrix said, Regulus Black was deceased, possibly killed by Voldemort's hand for betraying him. However, the identity of his mother was what truly affected Izar.

He worked with her.

Izar's face crumbled and he tried to fight against the swell of dark emotion. Never before had he felt so _abandoned,_ so unwanted. He laughed bitterly. How could a mother abandon her child and then pretend she didn't even _know_ him when they met fifteen years later?

Merlin, it stung.

The air shifted and turned heavier, spurring Izar to push off from the wall and desperately try to school his features. The Dark Lord loomed nearby, having arrived soundlessly. His hood was down, revealing the intrigued eyes focused attentively on Izar’s determined expression.

“I would have thought you knew, or at least had a very good assumption.”

“Knew?” Izar mulled over the word. “Of course I _wanted_ to know. I wanted conformation. I’m not without curiosity.”

“Naturally. Being as you are a Ravenclaw.” His stare was unblinking. “Evidently, you were unsuccessful.”

Izar glanced at the Dark Lord and then away. “Not unsuccessful, but rather thwarted. I brewed the hereditary potion and discovered someone had placed a seal on my ancestry. I just hadn’t realized I had _worked_ with my mother all this time. Not being wanted—and being abandoned—are bitter pills to swallow.”

“That may be so, but once they go down, you realize the unnecessary energy you spent trying to swallow them.”

Izar frowned.

“I was also a bastard child,” the Dark Lord clarified dispassionately. “As I’m sure you have already assumed, I was raised in an orphanage after my mother died in childbirth. My Muggle father left my pregnant mother as soon as he discovered her aptitude for magic. He never bothered to find out what became of his unborn child."

"Did you forgive him? Your father?" Izar wondered.

A dark chuckle raised the hairs on the back of Izar's neck. "No. I killed him at the age of sixteen."

Izar's lips twitched. Reluctantly, his deference for the man heightened. It was undoubtedly an ugly history to recollect—one that had the potential to bring shame—yet Voldemort was willing to share it with Izar. Regardless of whether the Dark Lord shared it to demonstrate that parentage meant little in the grand scheme of things, or to demonstrate Izar wasn’t the only sad little orphan—Izar appreciated it.

“That must have been liberating.”

Voldemort quirked a cool brow. “It truly was. One of my proudest moments.” He turned his shoulder on Izar. “Have you recomposed yourself enough to continue with the initiation?”

Izar’s face turned warm and he hurriedly fell into step with the Dark Lord. “I didn’t need to—” He took a deep breath and redirected away from an obvious lie. “I’m ready to take the mark.” He followed the Dark Lord as they retraced the familiar corridor. It was empty. "Bellatrix," he started tentatively, “won't tell any of the others, will she?"

The Dark Lord drew up his hood and covered his features. "Bellatrix is difficult to understand, but she has a strong sense of family honor. She will not speak to another about your lineage, but I imagine she will continue to harass you.”

Izar grimaced. He didn’t mind so long as she refrained from telling everyone outside the _family_. "And you, My Lord, will you do the same?" Izar questioned. "You won't speak of this incident again, will you? Frankly, I'd rather forget about it myself." It wasn’t a plea, and it wasn’t a command, but it was an incredibly bold way to address the Dark Lord.

Fortunately, the dark wizard showed one more act of leniency. "It has already slipped my mind," Voldemort suggested.

It was a lie.

Izar's gaze dropped. He knew the wizard wouldn't forget. Evidently, Regulus had betrayed the man. Not only that, but the Black family was notorious for being a strong political force and knowledgeable in the field of Dark magic. Both traits were rather lost on Izar. Nonetheless, he didn't think of himself as a Black. His parents and his ancestors did not define him.

He was just Izar Harrison.

*** * * ***

The others shifted.

He remained stiffly motionless.

There were three others in the room with him. Two of which were a few years older than himself, while the last was about thirty years of age. He wondered, briefly, if they received priceless gifts and luxurious lunches from Voldemort. Perhaps they were treated with a brief history lesson from Tom Riddle's past.

Izar placed a hand on his stomach, feeling a bit nauseated.

Regret and apprehension swirled in his stomach, reminding him why he had refused the Mark the first time. He didn't want to be branded. He didn't want to be owned. The notion tore at his resolve, forcing his breathing to come out shallow.

However, he knew there was no way out of this. His time to back out had been several hours ago when he had the opportunity to run to Dumbledore and hide like a pathetic rat. But Izar couldn't run. He never ran from things—with the miserably embarrassing exception of this evening with Bellatrix. Normally, he faced his issues head on.

This would be no different.

He just had to remind himself that he would be going to Hogwarts on Monday. After which, he wouldn't need to attend meetings like this for a good year. Many things could change in that time span.

It wasn’t so bad…

Izar forced his hand away from his stomach.

After Voldemort gathered him from the corridor, he had escorted Izar to a cold, small room. From there, the Dark Lord had abandoned him, leaving him at the mercy of two of his followers. Death Eaters. That was what the servants to Lord Voldemort were called. It was what Izar was to be called after the Mark branded his skin.

The Death Eaters had forced Izar and the others to strip to their undergarments before a heavy robe was thrown at them. He, along with the three others, had to abandon their socks and trainers and suffer the cold stone against their naked feet.

By now, his skin was a pale blue, raised with goose bumps. The robe probably would have helped ward off the cold if it wasn't so big.

Suddenly, the door opened.

"He's ready to see you.” The Death Eater—donning a silver skull mask—ushered them out of the room. Through his mask, the man's eyes jeered at them as they filed out the room.

Izar shivered, yet his expression was indifferent as they made their way down the corridor. In just a few minutes, they’d be marked.

_The Mark._

All he had to do was focus his thoughts on the Mark and learn its properties. He had to admit, he was immensely curious about the Dark Mark adorning the Death Eater's arms. Had Tom invented the enchantment himself? And what, exactly, did the Mark do? It couldn’t be a simple brand. From what Izar gleaned these past few days, Riddle was wickedly smart and cautious. Surely, he’d create something that ascertained complete submission from his followers.

He buried the questions in the back of his mind as soon as they entered a room.

The room was ridiculously enormous with many, _many_ more servants than Izar had preconceived. The servants were all on their knees in a large semi-circle with Lord Voldemort at the point. Some wizards and witches were so far back, Izar wondered if they could hear anything. But when he noticed their masks, he realized that was intentional.

There was an obvious ranking system in Voldemort’s army.

The Death Eaters at the back wore charcoal masks. They were the largest majority, perhaps the newest members. The second group wore silver masks, their numbers a lot less than their charcoal-masked comrades.

And finally, the smallest group—barely twenty Death Eaters in total—wore gold masks.

They kneeled in the inner-most part of the semi-circle, closest to the Dark Lord. As Izar approached, he intentionally reached out to feel their magic. Evidently, Voldemort's Inner-Circle wasn’t comprised of the 'most powerful'—considering a few of the gold-masked Death Eaters had unimpressive auras—but rather on trust and years serving the Dark Lord.

Nevertheless, there _were_ scarily powerful wizards and witches in the Inner-Circle.

Izar kept his eyes ahead of him in order to refrain from gawking at the Death Eaters. His group moved through the ranks and stopped in front of the Dark Lord inside the semi-circle. Izar was forced to go on his knees as the older wizard in their group went down first.

He bowed his head, feeling eyes boring into the back of his skull from the Death Eaters behind him.

"I thank you all for coming," the Dark Lord started quietly.

Izar resisted a snort in amusement. There was no _choice_ but to come.

"You have chosen to join a commendable cause to fight against the discrimination of Dark magic. There will no longer be need for shame. We will comfortably cast Dark magic and teach Dark spells to our children at school.” The man paused deliberately, drawing everyone's bated breath. "Not only will we normalize the superior magic, but we will also cleanse the world of Muggle taint. Muggles have slowly—but steadily—plagued our world. Wizarding children should not grow up unawares in the Muggle world, especially Muggle orphanages."

Izar looked up from his position on the ground, eyeing the Dark Lord. The man did not meet his eyes, yet surely, he said that for Izar.

Or himself.

Their backgrounds were so similar, after all.

“Our society has dumbed down in order to accommodate these Muggle-raised wizards and witches. We’ve grown stagnant. We’ve grown complacent. Our complexity and intricacy with magic has become stale. It is time to reclaim our preeminence and take control.”

Here, there were pleased and enthusiastic murmurings from the other Death Eaters.

Izar was certain they had heard this more than once, but the thrill of hearing those promises rekindled their addiction and their captivity of the Dark Lord’s visions of a better future. It was a never-ending cycle. The Dark Lord would preach, caressing his followers with his powerful and impressive aura, and in turn, the Death Eaters grew more enamored with the man.

They craved more. They _needed_ more.

Voldemort sat down on his chair that many would confuse as a throne. "Tonight, we have four new wizards joining our cause. They offer us the advantage we need with exclusive skillsets and notable knowledge in the arts."

Voldemort cocked his head to the side, a sardonic smile spreading across his lips.

"Andrew Rowley."

The older man in the group crawled forward like a pathetic animal and came to a stop right before Voldemort. "My Lord," he murmured quietly, "I pledge to you my loyalty and my riches. I will bring pride to your name." The man—Rowley—then hunched down to kiss the hem of Voldemort's robes.

Izar bit back a disgusted snarl, unable to see himself doing something as degrading as kissing a man's robes. Through hooded eyes, he watched as Voldemort leaned forward, pressing his wand against Rowley's bare forearm.

 _"Morsmordre,"_ Voldemort hissed.

As the Mark all but tattooed into the man's arm, Rowley's shoulders shuddered before he screamed piercingly.

Izar leaned back on his knees, his curiosity getting the better of him. Just _what_ was that spell? It must have been more than skin deep for the man to scream so excruciatingly. Did it affect the nervous system? The skin tissue was surely damaged, but Izar knew it had to go further. After all, couldn't Death Eaters simply carve off the Dark Mark if they no longer wanted to be a servant to the Dark Lord? Izar imagined Voldemort wouldn't allow it to be that easy to get rid of the Mark.

"Severus," Voldemort called, motioning for a gold masked Death Eater to approach.

Izar became taller in his kneeling form.

His eyes drank in the man who quickly approached Rowley and slathered a salve on the freshly branded arm. Severus? Severus _Snape_? Izar's hands splayed the cold ground as he leaned closer. He didn't know what he was more interested in. Why Severus was a Death Eater, or what the salve consisted of.

Izar would have to speak to the Slytherin Head of House this year when he returned to school. He had a respectable relationship with Professor Snape. It wouldn't be awkward to ask about the properties of the salve. Perhaps the man could give Izar an insight of the Mark itself.

Sitting back, he watched the last two boys go forward to get branded. All of them screamed, perhaps louder than the first man. Despite the promise of pain, Izar was looking forward to getting the Mark and feeling the after effects of the branding. His eagerness of obtaining the Mark was purely educational, of course. He wanted to _solve_ the mystery of the Mark.

And he would try his best not to scream.

He couldn't.

"Izar Harrison."

It was his turn to approach. Unlike the others, Izar stood and walked to Voldemort before lowering on his knees. Severus turned his neck sharply at Voldemort's call, his eyes locking on charcoal-green before Izar looked away.

"My Lord," Izar started off like the others had done, "I pledge to you my undying loyalty. I will bring honor to your name."

He couldn't pledge Voldemort his 'riches' simply because Izar didn't have any. Instead, he dipped his head, gathering the hem of Voldemort's robes like the others had done. His fingers bunched the material, surely wrinkling it. He could feel acid build up in his mouth at the thought of having to do this in front of hundreds of eyes.

But a hand stopped him.

"Bless me instead, child."

Izar frowned, not comprehending the order. Around him, the Death Eaters whispered in surprise.

"My hand, Izar." The Dark Lord’s voice was amused.

Izar wondered what was more mortifying, kissing the man's robes or his hand. Nonetheless, he shakily grabbed the long and pale hand in his own. Both of their hands were cold and shocks claimed Izar's arms, just as it always did when their bare skin touched.

He leaned over and kissed the back of Riddle's palm before turning it over and kissing the pulse point. As he pulled back, Riddle's fingernail scratched the length of his jawline. It drew blood, that much was for certain. Through stunned eyes, Izar watched as Voldemort tasted the blood on his finger, his crimson eyes incredibly bright and provoking as he eyed Izar.

Hurriedly averting his gaze, Izar lifted his sleeve, baring his forearm. He shivered when the Dark Lord's wand pressed into his arm.

_"Morsmordre."_

It was agonizing.

Izar clenched his jaw shut and his eyes slid closed as he felt the effects of the magic wash through him. Lightning-like flashes danced beneath his eyelids as the curse made its way through his bloodstream—rapidly increasing his body temperature—before eventually making its way up to his head and making him lightheaded. 

His assumptions were correct. This was far more than just a simple tattoo.

Just as he was about to lose control, it was over.

Izar opened his eyes, panting. Even if the shocks were finished, the Mark on his skin still burned severely. He glanced up at Voldemort, noting the man's pensive gaze.

"You did not scream." The Dark Lord held up a hand, halting Snape’s advance with the salve. "Perhaps you don't even need the salve."

Izar wanted to protest, but he remained tight-lipped. He had too much pride to beg for the ointment.

"My Lord…" Snape, surprisingly, was the one to protest.

Voldemort tsked. "If the boy wants the salve, he will need to ask me. It will no doubt bend his pride."

Izar bit his lip, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground before him. Everything was a light blur. Somehow, the cold in the room grew warm, heating his cheeks and even his feet.

He was sure it was a fever.

But he wouldn't ask for the salve. If he could make it without screaming, he could make do without using the salve.

Later, he was presented with his mask.

He was too disorientated to realize he was the only new recruit to obtain a silver mask.


	7. Part One, Chapter Seven

**Part One, Chapter Seven**

Resting his forehead against the cool glass, he stared tiredly out into the passing scenery. In an attempt to numb the throbbing pain in his left forearm, his right hand clutched at the Mark. He knew it was pointless. He had tried every healing spell he knew of, yet the pain only numbed for several minutes before coming back twice as strong.

He felt miserable. Not himself. And completely ill.

On his lap was a book about the Protean Charm. The Protean Charm was designed to link several objects through one common link. Izar had his suspicions that this was based off Voldemort's Dark Mark. But no matter how much Izar wanted to learn more about the Mark, his mind could only concentrate on the pain thrumming from his arm.

The large leather tome he received from Voldemort—the _Eruditio—_ was stored at the bottom of his trunk, still wrapped in its protective cloth. He couldn't bring himself to use the book just yet. Not when he was less than pleased with the Dark Lord. Despite his childish stubbornness of not implementing the gift, his mind always wandered back to the book.

Was there more information on the Protean Charm in the _Eruditio_? Did it have any information on the Dark Mark itself?

He doubted it.

Riddle had invented this himself. Izar would have to uninvent it in order to discover its properties.

A loud screech emitted from the compartment door as it opened, issuing a timid first year. "Everywhere else is full, may I…" the boy trailed off timidly.

Izar's neck cracked audibly as he quickly turned and leveled the boy with a glare. " _No_ , you may not sit here. Find somewhere else."

The boy hurriedly shut the door and ran from his compartment. Instead of getting the peace and quiet he required, he was so very _pleased_ to see a blond boy reappearing at his compartment door, peering inside. Malfoy invited himself inside, unaware of Izar’s desire to sit alone. He didn’t want others to see his pain. He didn’t want _company._

"What did the little first year do to you?" Malfoy grinned.

Izar leaned his head against the bench, eyeing the blond unhappily. "The same thing you're doing, Malfoy. Invading my privacy."

Malfoy didn't appear bothered by his snide tone. Rather, the spoiled bastard sat on the bench opposite of Izar. The Malfoy heir looked entirely too comfortable being here, especially after four long years of continuously being at odds with each other. Nevertheless, Izar knew exactly _why_ Draco was comfortable here. And he did not like it.

He was afraid this would happen.

He sighed. "We aren't friends. And we are _not_ family, Malfoy. Whatever you heard from Bellatrix will remain between _us_ , do you understand me?" Izar leaned forward, wincing when he put weight on his left arm.

The last thing he wanted to think about was his parentage.

He had put the situation in the back of his mind after his branding. That was… until he had seen Lily at the Department of Mysteries last Friday.

She had approached him with an apologetic expression, no doubt wanting to apologize for what had happened in the Death Chamber. Before she could approach him, however, Izar had turned his heel and left her in the corridor. Whatever she had wanted, he hadn't cared. He wouldn't put himself through that. Seeing her had brought back the pain he had felt at the initiation. He wanted so badly to ask her the broad question of _why_ , but he couldn't go through with it.

It was better to leave the whole situation dead.

Like it had been for fifteen years.

Now that he was on the train to Hogwarts, Izar felt relieved. He wouldn’t need to attend a Death Eater meeting until next summer. Moreover, he wouldn't need to see Lily again. In fact, he wouldn't even need to think about his parents when his concentration would be focused exclusively on schoolwork and trying to discover all the properties of the Dark Mark.

But Malfoy _had_ to stick his nose up Izar's arse just because he found out they were 'related'—however distant it was.

Izar wouldn't have it.

He wanted a quiet year before he had to face it all again next summer.

Malfoy paid no attention to Izar’s earlier comment. "I heard you were presented with a silver mask. New recruits are almost always presented with charcoal masks." The boy's voice was pinched, faintly envious, yet curious. "The Dark Lord must trust you. And my father seems to approve of our Lord's decision. But what I don't understand is why you didn't receive the salve. I couldn't hear from my position in the back and father didn’t have much to say on the matter."

Without taking a breath, Malfoy caught sight of his hand. His eyes widened comically.

“Your hand looks _enormous_! It’s three times larger than your other hand.”

Izar growled at Draco. "Your observational skills are almost as remarkable as your aptitude of stating the obvious.”

Draco sniffed. "Your attitude always mirrors Severus'. I'm used to it. You can't affect me. _He_ doesn't affect me."

Pity. "Obviously he feels the same way about you as I do."

Draco raised his hand to examine his fingernails. "Your cynicism is a cover for how you truly feel. My mother confided with me that Regulus was a lot like Severus. You three would get along—" the blond broke off at Izar's thunderous expression. Suddenly, the calm and arrogant Malfoy vanished. In its place was a slightly hesitant and pensive boy. "Listen, _Harrison_ , I didn't come here to apologize to you."

Izar raised his eyebrows. He didn't want to be having this discussion. He didn’t want an amicable Malfoy.

"However, I realize I treated you unfairly in the past for unjust reasons. I _don't_ apologize, but I would like to start over."

Izar sneered, sitting back against the bench. "Are you ‘turning a new leaf’ because the Dark Lord and your father have taken an obvious interest in me, and you wanted to save your own arse? Or are you doing this out of the goodness of your heart?"

The blond made a face. "The former, obviously."

"Obviously," Izar repeated dryly, a bit relieved. He really hadn’t expected Draco to have a change of heart. He was a thoroughbred Slytherin who only cared about saving his own hide.

Draco smirked. "I'd like to start over. I'll even agree not to mention your parentage to anyone."

Izar withheld a groan. The boy wouldn't let up. "If I agree, will you also promise to leave me alone?"

"That kind of defeats the purpose of 'starting over', doesn't it?" Blond eyebrows hitched and silver eyes danced across Izar's irritated expression. "Though I suppose it's a start." And after what felt like eternity, Draco stood up. His mouth twisted with amusement—as if he _knew_ what kind of torment he was putting Izar through. “I'll ask Severus to look at your arm. It really doesn't look well."

_No shit._

"Leaving so soon, Malfoy?" Another voice entered the compartment, causing Izar to lean his head further against the cushion.

Was it too much to ask to have a bit of peace and quiet?

Daphne Greengrass—in all her pure-blood glory—gracefully entered the small compartment.

"Harrison wants to be alone today, Greengrass," Draco commented snidely. He observed Daphne's growing smile and the way her attention focused exclusively on Izar. "I didn't know you were acquainted so well with Harrison." He sounded jealous, wary. And it was purely because Draco thought he had Izar to himself.

Izar knew the two didn't get along well. They tolerated each other, yes, but they never socialized with one another. Malfoy thought Daphne was too outspoken for a pure-blood witch and Daphne shared Izar's opinion on Draco. He was simply a pampered boy who had yet to grow up.

Brushing aside a few strands of her short blond hair, Daphne sized Draco up. "Some of us have the common sense to see past Izar’s façade.”

Izar merely picked up his book, already bored with the two blondes. "If you two don't mind.” He waved his book. "I'd like to read up on a few things. Without interruption.”

Daphne turned away from Malfoy, her attention once again on her prize. "I actually came to sit with you today, Izar. I haven't seen you all summer except at the Ministry gala." Noting Izar's goaded expression, she continued smoothly, "I even brought something to read."

Izar raised his eyebrows, amused. "Purely educational, I imagine."

"You know me so well.” She grinned as her perfectly manicured nails opened the new edition of _Witch Weekly._

Izar's eyes widened in dismay and he hurriedly looked away from the piece of rubbish and back at his textbook.

The girl never read for leisure, but she passed her classes fairly well based on pure talent alone.

He remembered when they had met. She had been in third year, stressing over her potions essay in the library. When she’d looked up and noticed his observation, he had immediately noted her bloodshot eyes. Of course she had snapped at him, telling him to look elsewhere or she'd hex him. Her extreme frustration had softened Izar a bit. Ignoring her threat, he had offered his help. She hadn’t agreed at first, far too proud to accept help, especially from a second year. But she had eventually relented.

Since then, she never took advantage of Izar's knowledge. And since then, she always seemed persistent to linger around Izar, resulting in a rather unusual relationship between the two.

Eventually— _reluctantly_ —he had come to tolerate her presence.

Malfoy cleared his throat, still standing near the compartment door. "I think I'll stay here then.” The boy sniffed haughtily, sitting across from them. "Do you have anything to read then, Harrison? Knowing you, you probably have a book up your arse.”

Daphne gave a dismayed sigh.

He looked slowly up from his text, haven’t gotten anywhere thanks to the constant interruptions.

Over the top of his book, he examined Draco. The boy had matured over the summer, appearing more man than child. He resembled Lucius significantly with the lengthening hair and the expression of cool arrogance. Of course, Izar had never met Narcissa Malfoy, but he did see a softness around Draco's mouth that Lucius did not harbor.

"I think your reading preferences are more in line with Daphne's tastes." Izar quirked a lazy brow as the Malfoy heir glanced at the issue of _Witch Weekly_. "Perhaps you can ask her for something to read."

As Daphne brought up a hand to muffle her laughter, the Greengrass Family ring glinted from the sun’s rays. Izar turned somber as he looked at the ring, knowing Draco also had one on his finger. He turned away when Daphne caught his eyes.

Draco's lips twisted in grimace. "Very amusing, Harrison."

Daphne cut in smoothly. "I'm eager to see the Durmstrang students." She batted her lashes. "I was only in first year when the Tournament was held in France. The younger years were required to stay back, but from what I've heard, they are a handsome lot of men."

It took Izar a long while to understand what she was speaking of. "I had nearly forgotten about the Tournament," he commented before turning back to his book and staring at it unseeingly. Since resuming the Triwizard Tournament nearly fifty years ago, they had decided to also resume holding it every five years.

"Don't forget about Beauxbatons." Draco flashed Daphne a smug look. "Now _that_ is a handsome lot of women."

"Hardly.” She looked to Izar. "Do you think they're anything special, Izar?"

He stared at the text on the page, unable to believe he was having this discussion. He would rather be sitting in the Death Chamber with Lily Potter than be evaluating the level of handsomeness between Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. "Are you going to put your name in the Goblet?" Izar easily changed the subject.

Daphne wasn't so impressed by his tactics, but Draco puffed out his chest and lifted his chin.

"Of course I am going to enter."

Izar narrowed his eyes, observing how the boy held himself and the proud flush of pink along his cheeks. There was something about Draco’s tone that made it almost certain he _would be_ chosen as a Champion. There was no way in hell Izar could see Draco being picked for Hogwarts Champion, but the boy's expression spoke of utmost confidence.

Just what did Draco know that they did not?

"You don't seem too excited." Daphne touched Izar's shoulder. "Are you going to put your name in the Goblet? I think you would make a brilliant Champion."

“You need to be at least sixteen to enter and I just turned fifteen." She pouted. "Besides, even if I was old enough, I would never go near the Tournament." The last thing he wanted was attention. Fame. Interest. Glory. He couldn’t fathom thrusting himself into the heat of publicity, expecting fame and glory.

Even if it was for a large sum of money…

However, there were benefits to having the Tournament this year. He realized he would have _so much_ extra time to research. While the rest of the school would be celebrating the Tournament and attending the Challenges, he could be _alone_. He could work on the Dark Mark and also his Unspeakable project he vowed to complete this school year before returning to work in the summer.

Draco scoffed, drawing Izar’s attention to the present. 

"Izar would never enter." The two boys shared a knowing look. "As long as the Norwegian Government doesn't win again, I don’t care who the Champion is. Durmstrang has won all the Tournaments with the exception of that first year. Hogwarts has yet to win since the Tournament reopened fifty years ago."

It was true.

The three Ministries were rather competitive when it came to the Tournament. The Norwegian Ministry, or in particular, the Durmstrang Institute carried the highest exam scores and the most bragging rights. From what Izar knew, the high-ranking politicians always placed wagers on the Triwizard Tournament. They grew rather aggressive during the Tournament and even traveled to the hosting school.

And evidently, Britain was hosting the Tournament this year…

Izar's fingers twitched and his book dropped to his lap as he realized something. _Tom Riddle_ was a politician. Only second to that of the Minister. He would most definitely be at Hogwarts for a good remainder of the year.

Izar took a deep breath and tried to calm himself when his left arm jerked painfully.

He had thought he would get a whole year without even _seeing_ the Dark Lord again.

_Well…bullocks._

*** * * ***

Finally managing to shake himself free of Draco and Daphne, Izar—now dressed in his blue and bronze Ravenclaw robes—entered the castle. He was relieved to be back at Hogwarts. Anything to be out of the orphanage and away from the Department of Mysteries. He didn’t know how long he could have tolerated Lily Potter’s presence without saying something.

The Ravenclaw prodigy glided toward a column and stood near the shadows to compose himself among the sea of other students.

His left arm burned fiercely. Not only the Mark itself, but his whole arm. The pain and the swelling were up to his shoulder. It had been a chore to put on his robes, and eventually, he had to bend to Draco's offered help.

Izar moaned quietly, setting his hot face against the pillar. Admittedly, he had wanted the salve the day after he was branded, but he’d been too adamant not to contact the Dark Lord. The man made it so easy for Izar to dislike him. One moment, Tom Riddle had empathy and was _human,_ and in the next, he was entirely closed off and treated others as if they were beneath him.

As well, Izar hadn’t wanted to _bend_ to the Dark Lord.

However, with the throbbing and burning, he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate.

Pain-filled eyes watched as the students crowded together, whispering and talking loudly among each other. Their strides were wide and hurried as they entered the Great Hall, anxious to see their friends again. And then Izar saw the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students fill inside the entryway.

His teeth clenched and his eyes shut briefly as his arm convulsed again.

Would anyone even notice his absence at the Welcoming Feast?

No.

Opening his eyes, he observed the students walk past him, not seeing him. Izar pushed his back further against the column, noticing how invisible he was. Some of their eyes looked at him and swiftly turned away from him as if they hadn't even noticed him.

But this was what he liked, wasn't it? To be able to do anything he wanted without notice, without scrutiny. On the train, he had been tired of Daphne’s and Draco's presence, so why was he affected by the students' oblivious nature to him?

He caught sight of a few Ministry workers entering through Hogwarts' doors. And in the middle of the Britain group stood the tall and charming politician—Tom Riddle. His cheater glasses were upon his nose and his false brown eyes sparkled as he interacted with his colleagues. Before Izar could compose himself and recover from seeing the Dark Lord again so soon, Riddle's eyes rose from the Minister to lock on Izar's form in the shadows.

Izar heaved in surprise. He quickly rotated his body around the pillar as their group passed.

He breathed shallowly.

If he was so invisible to all the students, then how did a powerful Dark Lord notice him so _easily_? So instantaneously? As if Izar were of importance…

"Mr. Harrison.”

With his heart in his throat, he looked up at Severus Snape.

"Come with me."

The potions professor did not wait for Izar to collect himself before swiftly leading the way down to the dungeons. Izar quickly pushed off from the pillar and followed the billowing robes.

"What is it, sir?" he asked as they neared the man's private offices. "Won't we be missing the Welcoming Feast?" He didn't care if he missed the Welcoming Feast. In all actuality, he welcomed the chance to get away from all the noise that would surely accompany the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament.

Snape didn't answer as he held the door open for Izar. The Ravenclaw entered the private offices unquestioningly, looking at all the jars on the shelves. His usual curiosity was oddly absent tonight and he bypassed the unusual ingredients in order to look at Snape. The potions master walked around him, his expression frighteningly pinched.

"You should have owled me or the Dark Lord." Snape's deep baritone cut harshly through the silence. “Take your robe off.”

Izar's shoulders slumped at the command. "I didn't want to…" he trailed off as his right hand fumbled with the clasps. 

"You didn't want to bend to the Dark Lord, yes, I had my suspicions. However, I am not the Dark Lord and I have possession of the salve. I have been waiting for your owl the past several days." Snape gathered a ceramic jar of ointment from his desk before approaching Izar. "It appears as if you weren’t as intelligent as we had originally believed."

Izar flashed the man a withering stare. "I didn't want to be a bother." Truthfully, he wanted to find out how to cure the burning himself. But that plan went astray when he realized his fever was preventing him from studying.

"A bother," Snape repeated dryly. He sighed impatiently and reached out to assist Izar with taking off his robe. "You are a wonder."

A crimson flush spread across the back of Izar's neck as he was undressed by his professor. His expression remained neutral as Snape unrolled his left sleeve, though his neutrality did not last long as the material brushed against his tender skin.

A hiss escaped between Izar's clenched teeth.

"You foolish boy," Snape reprimanded as he studied the fat and pink arm. "You have an infection."

"I wanted to find out myself," Izar snapped, tired of Snape scolding him as if he were a little boy. "I should have been able to find out _how_ to stop the burning. But I couldn't concentrate, not with the burning… not with everything…" he trailed off when his voice cracked with frustration and defeat.

Tears clouded his vision and he angrily blinked them away. Between his parentage, the branding, and his inability of making any progress with the Unspeakables, Izar was having trouble grasping hold of himself and his focus. He had failed with many things this summer, and frankly, he felt like a miserable disappointment.

Snape remained silent as he opened the salve.

The smell of aloe and rosemary hit Izar's senses, soothing him.

"I'm afraid I'm losing my aptitude," he confessed, truly afraid of losing the only power he had control of, the only thing he could be proud of. He needed his intellect.

Snape clicked his tongue in disapproval and applied a generous amount of salve to the pitch-black Dark Mark. "One does not lose their intelligence, Mr. Harrison. Your knowledge only grows with time, it does not diminish." Surprisingly, the man did not scorn Izar for his childish fears. "You are experiencing the acerbic taste of adulthood with all its transformations and difficulties. Your mind is restless and unsettled. It is only natural it cannot rest long enough to absorb knowledge."

Adulthood sounded miserable. These _emotions_ and _feelings_ were getting in the way of his typical concentration. It was no wonder why he’d always kept to himself. People and their drama had the tendency to distract him from what was most important.

The Ravenclaw considered Snape’s bent head as the man applied the soothing salve. "Do you ever regret it?" he asked slowly, gauging Snape’s reaction.

Surprisingly, Snape knew exactly what Izar was asking.

"Yes.” The man finished applying the salve and turned his back on Izar as he refastened the container. Izar watched attentively as Snape walked around his desk and placed the salve in the top drawer. "Every new recruit has regretted obtaining the Dark Mark, if not at least briefly. You are not alone."

Izar’s attention dropped to his vibrant pink arm, studying the strong-smelling paste. "Thank you, sir.”

Only when the paste hardened did he pull down his sleeve. It still burned, yet there was a _small_ relief.

Izar did not know if the relief came from the salve or from Snape’s reassurance.

"It will likely take a few days until the swelling goes down and the color returns to normal. We will apply the salve once more tomorrow to make certain the infection disappears." Snape leaned against the back of his desk. Crossing his arms over his chest, he surveyed Izar impassively. Nothing ever got past a Legilimens and Izar felt a brief stab of envy.

“Would it possible, sir, to discuss the Dark Mark in more depth tomorrow? I'd like to learn more about it. Its functions and properties." He didn't add that he wanted to experiment with the Dark Mark, just in case the man was against committing such an offense against their _Lord._

Unexpectedly, Snape smirked and his eyes were knowing. "I also experimented on the Dark Mark when I first obtained it. I brewed countless of potions in attempt to stop the Mark's influences. Regrettably, I didn't get very far in my studies. Tomorrow, I will give you my notes.”

Izar was surprised Snape had admitted to experimenting on the Dark Lord's Mark. "I—thank you, sir. I'd like that very much."

The potions master nodded curtly and swept toward the door. "We are due at the Great Hall. No doubt the Dark Lord has already noticed our absences."

Izar frowned. The Dark Lord wasn't stupid. He would connect the dots. Voldemort had specifically said Izar should contact _him_ in order to get the salve. Izar just wondered if the Dark Lord would hold his tongue in Hogwarts or act on his temper.

As the two stepped into the dark corridor, Izar's fevered face clashed pleasantly with the cool atmosphere of the dungeons. He glanced at Snape from the corner of his eye, wondering about the man. "Sir?" Izar’s voice sounded rather haunted in the corridors. "Did you know Regulus Black?"

He vowed he would never bring up the subject himself, but he knew there was something linking Severus Snape to his parents. The man had to have _known_ Izar had brewed the heredity potion in his third year. Why did the man never confront Izar about it, especially when it was forbidden to take ingredients from his personal storage?

Izar remembered hearing about a few Gryffindors stealing from Snape's ingredients. The man assigned them detention for three months and deducted so many points that their House never had a hope to win the House Cup. But Snape had stepped aside and remained silent when Izar took ingredients for not only _one_ heredity potion, but _three_.

Either Snape favored Izar—enough to overlook such blatant disrespect for his supplies—or he had known and understood Izar's curiosity involving his parentage.

He was guessing it wasn't the first possibility. Snape was rather possessive of his potions.

The older man’s demeanor shifted. "I did." Snape’s fingers flexed, a gesture usually observed when the man wanted to calm his temper.

"You knew he was my father, didn't you?" Izar accused coldly.

Snape halted and quickly turned to Izar. He peered down his nose at the shorter wizard. "I had my suspicions. And only my suspicions. It wasn't until you grew older when those suspicions were confirmed. Had I known earlier, would you have wanted me to tell you?"

"No," Izar replied with firm resolution. "I was just curious if you had known, that's all."

Izar gave the man an imperturbable look before turning and continuing to the Great Hall. He wasn't upset that Snape had kept the revelation a secret. After all, both his parents had fought desperately to keep it a secret. Why should he blame Snape for doing the same?

Snape's voice followed at his heels. "He is a good man."

Izar turned around swiftly, his eyes narrowing. " _Is_? I was told Regulus Black was murdered for his act of betrayal to the Dark Lord. Are you insinuating otherwise?" He didn't allow the man to confirm or deny the claims. "Because I guarantee—no matter what the answer is—that I don't care. He's dead to me. And will forever remain _gone_."

He realized a moment too late that his hands were shaking.

He took a deep breath to compose his anger. It was silly to take his frustrations out on the potions professor. "Thank you for your assistance, sir, I appreciate your help."

He turned and hurried from the dungeons.

_Regulus Black is dead._

It was what he had to keep repeating in order to stop the feeling of sharp betrayal.


	8. Part One, Chapter Eight

**Part One, Chapter Eight**

Izar didn't sneak in like he had imagined he would.

The Great Hall was packed with students and politicians. The French, Norwegian, and British Ministry politicians—along with their respective Headmasters or Headmistress—had somehow squeezed at the High Table.

At the moment, Headmaster Dumbledore stood at his golden podium, addressing the Hall and incurring most of the attention. However, there were a few eyes that turned in Izar’s direction upon his entrance. Uncomfortable, but managing to remain neutral, Izar quickly moved down the steps and toward the Ravenclaw table.

Terry Boot, a fifth year Ravenclaw, had saved him a seat as he had every year.

Izar sat down gracefully, hiding himself behind the mass of students. He paid half-attention to Dumbledore as he spoke about hosting the other schools and about good sportsmanship. 

Leaning back marginally, he caught sight of Snape entering from the side chamber, sitting only a few seats away from Tom Riddle. The Dark Lord watched Snape before gazing across the hall to Izar. The Dark Lord's expression was entirely impassive, though even from Izar’s seat, he could feel the sharp twinges to the man’s aura. 

Evidently, the man wasn't very happy.

Briefly, he wondered if Dumbledore was aware of the alternative personality of Tom Riddle. Even if the old Headmaster was a bit barmy at times, Izar knew the man was as brilliant as any scholar. There must have been _some_ suspicions on his part, even if the Dark Lord Voldemort hadn't presented himself to the world yet.

"…please welcome Hogwarts' new Defense against the Dark Arts, Professor Sirius Black."

Izar snapped his gaze away from Riddle and watched as the introduced wizard stood up to wave at the clapping students. Izar simply sat there, staring at the stranger. Sirius Black. Izar had to jog his memory of the Black Family tree. If he wasn't mistaken, Sirius was Regulus' brother. Which made Sirius Izar's uncle.

And they did share a few similarities, from the dark waves—almost curls—to the grey eyes. Sirius was a very handsome fellow. And there was the Black casual elegance and the sharp aristocratic features. But other than that, their similarities ended. Sirius was broader, more masculine. He was almost roguish. His grey eyes were darker as well, not nearly as vivid as Izar's.

Sirius' eyes skimmed the Hall and caught sight of Izar who sat frozen among the clapping students. The man faltered before clumsily dropping back into his seat.

 _You're an idiot._ Izar reprehended himself. He must have looked like a fool sitting there, gaping at Sirius Black.

“Professor Black has taken a year off from Auror work to teach the students here at Hogwarts. I expect you all to be welcoming. He has vast knowledge in his field," Dumbledore continued. "Now, the moment you have all been waiting for, the _feast_."

The table in front of Izar sprang with all sorts of foods. Pleased murmurs swept through the Hall as the students all tucked in.

"Did you have a good summer?" Terry Boot asked, his words almost drowned out by the rest of the Great Hall.

After slapping some mashed potatoes onto his plate, Izar spared Boot a quick glance. He and Terry had gotten along fairly well ever since they were Sorted together. However, neither of them spoke very much, both enjoying each other's silent company. Terry was a smart wizard—like many of the Ravenclaws—yet he always seemed to make their marks a competition. 

"Brilliant summer," Izar responded ironically. His left arm hung awkwardly at his side as he played with his potatoes. "And yours? Did you get the summer reading completed?"

"I did, I would ask you the same, but I already know the answer to that." Terry offered him a small, tart smile before returning his attention to his dinner.

Izar glanced sideways at the boy. Boot seemed a bit more lethargic today, if not bitter. "Do you _really_ know the answer to that? Or are you just assuming?" Izar prodded, interested to know why Terry's attitude had turned sour over the summer. Normally, the boy was soft-spoken and never had a bad bone in his body.

Blue eyes remained stubbornly on the dinner plate. "I do know the answer, Izar. You skipped a year. It would only seem obvious that you've finished your summer homework in order to get a good footing on the new year. Wouldn't want to be bumped back down to your rightful level, would you?"

Ah. That was it. Terry was feeling envious that Izar had skipped a year. Izar couldn’t remember a time _anyone_ had been jealous of him. This was new—unfamiliar—territory. "My rightful level?" he repeated dubiously. Fortunately, their conversation was a bit muffled with the loud chatter around the Great Hall. The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students were adding to the noise, heightening the volume in the Hall. "You think I belong in fifth year?"

Terry’s expression twisted with frustration. "I didn't say that, Izar.” The boy stabbed the meat pie on his plate. "Admittedly, I think you're a smart wizard. But then again, every Ravenclaw is smart. We just haven't witnessed any proof that you should have been considered for skipping a grade when we weren’t presented with the same opportunity."

_We._

Izar looked around the table, catching a few eyes of the Ravenclaws. The Ravenclaw table was unusually quiet tonight. They usually weren't as riled as the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, but typically enough to rise in volume against the Slytherins. Tonight, however, the older students were quiet as they listened in.

His eyes caught those of Granger's. The Mudblood's expression held no doubt, only curiosity.

He looked back down at his plate. Let them think he wasn't capable. It wasn't like him to raise his hand obnoxiously in class and interrupt the professor when they made a mistake in their lectures. He wasn't one to brag. He wasn't one to boast of his achievements.

"You need to prove yourself a bit more, Izar, that's all we are saying. Bring some recognition to the Ravenclaw House if you really are declared a 'true prodigy'." Boot murmured quietly, his tone mocking at the latter part.

"Believe what you want, Boot," Izar replied sharply, his voice heightening in volume for the others to hear. "I will not change my mannerisms just because my House wants recognition." He met the eyes of the other Ravenclaw students. "If they want to be recognized, they can use their own _remarkable_ intelligence." Izar calmly set down his fork. "Regrettably, if tonight is a reflection of their intelligence, it's a pity they will never be recognized."

With that, he stood from the Ravenclaw table and swept from the Great Hall.

Escaping the hot and loud Hall put Izar at ease, but with the solitude came a sense of stark loneliness.

He wandered up to the Ravenclaw tower, his path lightened by the dim torches. The farther he climbed, the more he realized that he wasn't tormented by loneliness, but by a sense of loss.

Was it possible to feel lost when one knew exactly where they were? Why, then, did he feel as if he were rooted in place as time passed around him? Why did he feel as if he were tumbling downhill and there was no solid root to hold on to? There was nothing stopping his downward protectory and he was afraid to reach the bottom.

Had he already reached the bottom?

His arm throbbed painfully and he paused on the staircase, his face crumbling with agony. Knowing there wasn’t anyone around to see his moment of weakness, he slumped against the banister. Placing his face into his right hand, he breathed painfully.

Izar had once vowed he would never need anyone—no friends—no help. But at what point would he learn to _accept_ the help offered to him? He was now owned by another. The Mark on his arm was proof of that. He didn't so much mind the cause he was supporting, but he _did_ mind having a constant reminder of his lack of ownership over his own actions.

And then there was his House.

He’d never had a problem with Ravenclaw. But now that he was offered a chance to succeed, his Housemates were blinded with their own envy and discrimination. Just because he wasn't well known—just because he wasn’t the poster child for Ravenclaw—he was declared as a fake. Someone to be viewed with resentment.

Did it really matter what they thought of him?

Izar straightened from the stairs.

No, it didn't matter what they thought of him. Izar had faced bigger betrayals, _much_ larger than a few children being envious of him.

He should take this situation in stride. He had acknowledged earlier that no one had ever been jealous of him. Shouldn't he be proud that there was now something to hold over other students' heads? Decidedly, he would never boast about his achievements, but standing there, on the stairs, he realized he could finally feel confident, _proud._

Izar grinned tightly.

Now that the issue with his House was calmly washed away from his mind, a weight was lifted. Dimly, he realized he was mediating, clearing his mind like an Occlumens would do.

But there would always be that _one_ issue he couldn't meditate on. And that was his parentage.

He recalled Riddle’s earlier words about the revelations being bitter pills to swallow— _“once they go down, you realize the unnecessary energy you spent trying to swallow them.”_ He was right. There was no point in trying to accept his parentage. He had no guardian during his most vulnerable years. He was independent now and would remain so the rest of his life. A parent would make little difference.

He scoffed, looking down at his enlarged arm.

Briefly, he considered Regulus. Severus Snape alluded to the fact that Regulus was alive. Such a comment had undoubtedly been intentional on Snape’s part. Was he trying to push Izar towards Regulus? Was there some deeper mystery regarding Regulus?

Students' voices were heard around the castle as they poured from the Great Hall.

Izar leaned over the stairs, watching as they filed out. Even from where he stood, he could see the excitement in their bodies, the way their shoulders were strung with exhilaration at being back at Hogwarts and reunited with the others. And the added bonus of the Tournament put a flush on their cheeks and a gleam in their eyes.

He realized then that he needed to put the past behind him and look toward the future. And that _had_ to bring better things.

With that determination fueling him, Izar threw back his shoulders and climbed down the stairs. His steps were quick, hoping he wasn't too late.

"Izar—" Boot called as he passed.

Izar ignored the Ravenclaw as he cleared the last step. He searched the busy entryway, bypassing many of the Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and Hogwarts students until he found the tall figure of Tom Riddle.

With a deep breath, Izar crossed the hall. Riddle was exiting the castle, undoubtedly returning home until tomorrow. But Izar wanted him _now_. He needed to bend his neck just this once, just this _one_ time in order to get relief from the burning pain that had yet to subside.

"Mr. Riddle!" Izar called out, his heart in his throat when he realized he might have been too late. It would be another night of restless sleep that involved waking up in cold sweat because he had rolled over on his left arm. His concentration in his classes would be horrendous tomorrow morning. And he _needed_ to be fully alert this year.

However, his voice was too quiet in the expansive hall. There were just too many students between the Dark Lord and himself.

Yet, somehow, Riddle paused in his retreat.

The man looked over his shoulder, his eyes immediately locking on Izar despite the countless of students between the two. The Ravenclaw took a step back, flabbergasted that the man had heard him. _How_? Suddenly, a tall student blocked his sights. Izar growled, hating his short height. He dodged to the side, searching for Riddle.

The man was nowhere to be seen.

"Fuck," he whispered, dismayed—angry.

He turned, prepared to go to Snape for a Dreamless Sleep potion, but the tall form of Tom Riddle blocked his path.

"Language, Mr. Harrison," Riddle smirked, revealing his stark white teeth.

Izar tried to steady his racing pulse. The man had appeared so _suddenly_. Instead of voicing his shock, however, he schooled his expression. "I was wondering, sir, if I could speak to you privately?"

Riddle's charm diminished and he nodded sharply. The charmed brown eyes glanced around the hall before he placed his hand on Izar's shoulder, steering him away from the chatter and into the shadows. "I had wanted to speak to you and Severus anyway."

It couldn't bode well.

The Dark Lord led him down to the dungeons with a hand wrapped around the back of his neck. Though Izar had just walked this path earlier, the distance to Snape’s personal offices seemed endless this time around. Riddle remained silent and his magic wasn't much of a solace. It lashed around him in waves, all but vibrating Izar's insides.

He had been prepared for this. He knew there had been a possibility of an angry Dark Lord.

Eventually, Riddle dropped his hand in order to knock on Snape’s door.

As if expecting them, the door opened silently. Snape stood stiffly behind his desk, watching them with dark eyes. Izar entered behind Riddle, shutting the door to his doom. Almost immediately, Riddle took his wand out, waving it. Bright silvery magic escaped from his wand, looking similar to small snakes as they slithered up and down the walls, sealing it in privacy wards.

Without so much as a pause, Riddle flicked his wand at Snape. Izar watched as the man went down to his knees, his expression twisting in pain. How could a silent spell be so painful? It shouldn't have surprised Izar that Riddle could cast nonverbal spells. And it wouldn't surprise him if Riddle could even do wandless magic.

Izar got his own taste of the nonverbal spell as Riddle cursed him next.

Like Severus, Izar went down to his knees, unable to support himself as the pain washed through his body. It wasn't the _Cruciatus_ curse, not only would it be detected within Hogwarts, but the pain wasn't nearly as intense as the textbooks described. Nevertheless, this curse managed to pinch his nerves and make his body tremble and move uncontrollably.

Before he could deliberate on the _exact_ hex, it was lifted.

He sighed with relief, staying in a relaxing position on the ground in order to settle his nerves. It was probably best he not stand in the presence of the Dark Lord anyway, especially when he was less than pleased.

"I specifically told the both of you that Mr. Harrison would come to _me_ for the salve. I can’t imagine what gave you the impression that it had been a friendly suggestion and not an explicit order,” Voldemort hissed darkly, his steps slow and calculating as he walked over to the potions master.

Izar was almost positive that if Voldemort wasn't under his politician façade, he would appear twice as frightening. Even so, the crimson eyes bled through the brown, clashing strikingly with the wizard’s incredibly pale skin. Riddle's expression was masked and cold, yet his magic and verbal tone spoke of his austere displeasure.

“It’s not Professor Snape’s fault, My Lord," Izar interrupted before Snape could speak. Riddle turned sharply, his eyes zeroing in on Izar. "I was the one who asked him for the salve."

From the corner of his eye, Izar felt the black eyes boring into the side of his head. Izar remained looking away from the potions master. They were both in submissive, passive positions, both their prides wounded. It would be best if they could avoid eye contact and not make their meek positions even more humiliating.

Riddle made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat as Izar volunteered to shoulder the blame. "That may be so, but Severus should have refused your plea. He heard my order at the initiation." Riddle narrowed his eyes down on the kneeling form of Izar. "Take your robe off. _Quickly_."

Blinking past the surprise at the sudden command, Izar struggled with his robes. The hex from the Dark Lord made his body on edge and shaky. It didn't help that his left hand was ablaze with pain, reminding him of the reason he had approached the Dark Lord in the first place. Fortunately, he struggled past it and managed to remove his outer robe. As soon as the material pooled on the ground, Riddle crouched down opposite of him.

It was a bit surprising that the Dark Lord would lower himself. Izar would have thought the man would have at least stayed standing, showing his dominance over both Snape and Izar.

With surprisingly gentle hands, Riddle took hold of Izar's sleeve and slowly rolled up the material. When his arm was revealed, Izar sensed Riddle’s magic swiftly turn darker. The young wizard shuddered, trying to control his trembling at being so close to the powerfully potent magic and its ever-changing dispositions.

" _You fool."_ With his eyes now completely crimson, he looked up at Izar. "You are a fool.”

Izar refused to blush.

But like most things, it was difficult to control and he could feel his flush creep up the back of his neck and to the tops of his ears.

"You are too prideful for your own good," Voldemort whispered, his fingers tightening around Izar's swollen arm. The Ravenclaw whimpered and closed his eyes in shame. "It is rare, but there are a few cases in which a wizard's body rejects the Mark, and in turn, the salve. I have to personally remove the infection from their system but only if they are _smart_ enough to ask. Otherwise, they end up losing their arm."

Izar's eyes opened wide. He looked at Riddle, watching as the Dark Lord examined his arm. "Surely I won't have to lose my arm."

" _Surely,_ you _should_ lose an arm for your idiocy," Riddle spoke calmly, his tone revealing nothing short of unsympathetic callousness. "There is a remedy," he continued with a wicked gleam in his eyes, "but it can only be implemented under one condition.”

Izar glanced shyly at Severus. The man was looking down, appearing almost bored. But Izar knew the man was listening intently.

"On what condition?" Izar asked slowly, already fearing the answer.

Cold fingers splayed the length of his throat and the Dark Lord tipped Izar's head back ever so slightly. The man's eyes were bright with an unidentified emotion as they absorbed Izar's delicate features. "You'll have to ask me. Plead." The long fingernails scraped Izar's neck, careful not to break the skin this time. "Bend that pretty little neck of yours, Mr. Harrison."

The Dark Lord wanted Izar to submit, to become submissive.

If it was any other pain, any other hex or curse, Izar could have suffered in silence. Living at the orphanage had increased his pain tolerance. He had broken many bones and cut many parts of his skin. Eventually, he had come to handle the pain.

But _this_ was entirely different.

"I…" he started off hesitantly. He had never asked for help before. It was difficult coming from his mouth. Fortunately, the Dark Lord's expression was neither eager nor arrogant. Instead, the man looked expectant and a bit peeved. "My Lord, could you please heal my arm?" Izar spoke to the ground near Voldemort's kneeling form.

The man tsked, his fingers grasping a hold of Izar's chin. "Look at me." Crimson eyes held Izar' stare, not allowing the younger to look away. “You have gone too long without anyone assisting you. It's time for you to accept help from your betters."

 _My betters_. Izar scowled. "Am I really accepting help if it was forced on me?" Instead of being angry, as Izar had braced himself for, the Dark Lord's lips quirked once with amusement before his expression bore impatience. "I will _never_ ask for assistance after this," Izar vowed heatedly. He was aware of Snape tensing, but he didn’t look away from Voldemort. "My Lord, _please,_ could you heal my arm?"

Voldemort released his jaw in a rather forceful manner before taking possession of Izar's arm once more. With sharp eyes, Izar drank in the man's proceedings, hoping this would give him more ideas about the Mark.

Izar's eyes grew wide as he watched the Dark Lord press his wand sharply against the Dark Mark. Izar gave a closed-mouth moan, his brows furrowing in pain. He needed to stay conscious.

No matter the pain, he _needed_ to see this.

And just like that, without any spoken words, without any Latin-based charms, his arm slowly began to heal itself. Izar watched as his fingers turned back to their normal size and an invigorating feeling tingled its way up his arm at a slow, steady pace. He laughed with disbelief, feeling a bit light-headed with all the magic washing through him.

As his body turned numb, he rocked forward involuntary and found himself breathing in Voldemort's robes. No matter how hard he tried to push himself away from the Dark Lord, he found his body paralyzed, almost if his muscles had turned to liquid. So, instead of fighting against it, he closed his eyes, taking in man's masculine scent.

His arm… it felt so _good_.

Izar hoped he wasn't drooling.

A shuffling was heard from across the room. "I can handle a fifteen-year-old child, Severus," the Dark Lord said irritably. A hand wrapped itself around Izar's back, pushing him more securely against the Dark Lord. Izar closed his eyes, rather comfortable in the man's arms despite his usual disagreement when it came to physical touch.

Unexpectedly, hissing tickled his ear and Izar stiffened.

He had forgotten that Tom Marvolo Riddle was a Parseltongue, as were all of Slytherin’s heirs. It wasn't publicized often, at least not by Riddle's supports. His critics, however, seemed to squeeze that bit of information in the papers as much as possible, just to remind the readers that the seemingly _middle-aged_ politician had a potentially evil streak.

They were right all along.

But Izar had always been curious to know what Parseltongue sounded like. And he finally got what he wanted.

The hissing started off irate, perhaps a bit like a scolding. And then it softened into something of a croon that made the hairs on the back of Izar's neck stand. Merlin, was this really happening? Izar wanted nothing more than to blush, maybe back away. He wasn't prepared for the pleasant shivers making their way down his spine.

Merlin, he was such a bloody _pansy_ today.

Fortunately—or unfortunately?—it ended quickly and Izar found himself being lowered to the ground. He opened his eyes, a confused frown marring his lips when he realized his arm was no longer burning and throbbing, but his muscles were still unusable.

"You should be able to move within a few minutes," the Dark Lord informed as he rose to his feet in one graceful motion.

"Your…" Izar started, his tongue heavy, "wand…"

Voldemort appeared highly amused. "My wand, yes, Mr. Harrison, this is my wand." The man's long fingers caressed his wand before he placed it up his sleeve.

It was the man's _wand core_ that connected all the Death Eaters' Marks together! It wasn't a potion, or any spell, it was the man's core. Izar scoffed loudly at the revelation. The only _problem_? He needed to find out what the man's wand core was. And Izar knew better than to ask the Dark Lord. It was a private issue for some wizards and it would be seen as disrespectful on Izar's behalf to ask his master.

As his body began to regain feeling, he slowly sat up and observed his arm. It was back to normal. There was only a slight burn and tingle from his Mark and Izar had a suspicion it was because of Voldemort's proximity.

"Thank you," he muttered softly.

"You can do one thing for me, Mr. Harrison." Voldemort leaned forward, grasping Izar's chin in his hand and bringing his gaze onto his own. "Study hard this year. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Izar nodded sharply, watching as Voldemort dropped his hand and made his way to the door.

No one had ever expected him to do well in school. No one ever showed a concern. But something about the man's command made Izar unsettled.

Study hard?

There was something much _more_ going on here.

*** * * ***

“I just placed my name in the Goblet, father.” 

The Norwegian Minister smiled. It wasn't a reassuring smile, and if anyone were to see it, they would have grown leery. “Very good.” The Minister stood. "We will _destroy_ the British government yet again. Riddle won't stand a chance."

The smile turned into a deep sneer as he thought of the British Undersecretary to the Minister. That _fool_ bet enough money to rival a family's life savings on this Tournament, foolishly vowing that the British would crush the Norwegians this Tournament. The Norwegian Minister remembered the egotistical gleam in Riddle's eyes as he had placed his bet.

Riddle had something up his sleeve this Tournament.

And the Norwegian Minister would play right back.

This Tournament was cutthroat. And he wouldn't be played as a fool, especially by Riddle.


	9. Part One, Chapter Nine

**Part One, Chapter Nine**

The Great Hall was fiercely abuzz.

Daphne sneered at her fellow classmates for their obnoxious behavior. _Honestly_ , there were limits to showing excitement for an event and this was clearly over the top. Once they caught her disapproving stare, they quieted, glancing solemnly at each other.

Sometimes, she wondered why she even bothered to keep up pretenses. Her father—Merlin bless him—always expected Daphne to show proper etiquette in public. She loved her father, but at times, she grew tired representing the old line of Greengrass. Because her mother and father hadn't conceived a male heir, Daphne was expected to continue on the Family name. 

She looked further down the Slytherin table at her fourteen-year-old sister, Astoria.

Daphne experienced a spasm of jealousy. Astoria was very beautiful with platinum blonde hair and bright eyes of sapphire. Beauty aside, Daphne was most jealous of her sister’s ability of unwinding. As long as Astoria did not make a fool of their Family name, she could be as carefree as she wanted to be. There were no pure-blood expectations on her.

Most importantly, there was no pressure to marry a respectable pure-blood.

Despite all this, despite her jealousy, Daphne admittedly adored Astoria and felt immensely protective over her. She was happy her sister did not live within preestablished expectations.

Turning away from Astoria, she looked toward the Ravenclaw table, _knowing_ the boy wouldn’t be there. Despite it only being three days into the new term, Izar was already skipping meals in order to dwell in the library. It didn’t surprise her in the least, but it worried her. Even Daphne noticed the pressure weighing on the Ravenclaw. He never showed it, but she imagined he had a driving need to prove himself to the disbelievers who thought he hadn’t demonstrated enough aptitude to skip a year. 

Suddenly, the voices quieted and the candles across the Great Hall dimmed.

All eyes were on the Goblet, holding their breath as the flames turned a blinding white-blue.

Daphne sat up, intrigued.

Malfoy claimed he would be the Hogwarts Champion. In fact, he went so far as to brag to the rest of the Slytherins about how he would bring glory and pride to their House. Daphne didn't find anything impressive about the young Malfoy's claims. In fact, she imagined Malfoy Senior would be less than pleased if he knew his heir was acting so… pompously obvious.

"It is time." Dumbledore swept from the High Table and stretched his hand toward the Goblet.

Daphne held her breath as the flames turned a vivid red before a piece of parchment shot from the Goblet. It spiraled in the air, all eyes watching its smoky descent. Dumbledore snatched it promptly and gazed down at the name of the first Champion. He probably enjoyed the way every student and politician leaned forward with anticipation.

Daphne could have sworn she saw the old Headmaster’s lips twitch.

"The Champion for Durmstrang Institute is…” A significant pause. “Lukas Steinar!"

Daphne watched as a tall, thin boy stood from a group of cheering Durmstrang students. He was very attractive. Silky black hair fell in his bright eyes as he approached the Headmaster. He definitely wasn’t as beautiful as Izar, but there was definitely competition. And to make matters even more appealing, he was the Norwegian Minister's son. And a pure-blood.

Steinar accepted the parchment and congratulations from Dumbledore before disappearing through one of the side chambers.

The Goblet suddenly spat out the next twirling parchment.

"The Champion for Beauxbatons Academy is…” The pause extended longer this time around, spurring anxious whispers across the Hall. “Cyprien Beaumont!"

Surprisingly, it was a male Beauxbatons Champion. Daphne sat back, both pleased and irritated. She was pleased, simply because she didn't think any of the Beauxbatons witches were remotely important enough to be so publicized, yet Daphne had hoped a female had been chosen for at least one of the schools.

There was always the Hogwarts Champion.

If _Malfoy_ didn't get it, that was.

She watched the redhead—Cyprien—as he approached the side chamber. Seeing him, she found her previous perceptions of redheads changing. Typically, when she thought of redheads, her mind instantly conjured up the image of a homely _Weasley_. It was distasteful. But Cyprien…

Before Daphne could thoroughly observe Cyprien, the flames turned red once again and the last piece of parchment shot out. Dumbledore was quick to snatch it, his own actions almost demonstrating a level of excitement that the students all shared. Holding the piece of parchment between his fingers, the Headmaster stared at it for quite some time.

Everyone sat forward.

Draco—almost landing in his dinner in his lean forward—looked as smug as the albino peacocks his family kept around their manor. Daphne observed her nails despite the lack of decent lighting.

"The Hogwarts Champion is… Izar Harrison?"

Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened before she could remember that a Greengrass _doesn’t_ gape. Did the Headmaster really just say— But there was _no_ way! The students and staff members leaned forward further, their faces twisting incoherently. They hadn't heard either. The Headmaster had spoken it so softly.

 _"Izar Harrison!"_ the Headmaster shouted loudly, causing the Hall to flinch back from the sheer volume.

Dumbledore turned to the Ravenclaw table and the rest of the heads followed suit when they didn't know where else to look. There weren't many people who knew who Izar Harrison _was_. And because of that, there weren't many who knew he was underage.

Daphne covered her mouth with her hand to muffle a pleased laugh. Oh, _this_ was just too good. What made it even greater was Malfoy's flabbergasted look. Daphne wished that annoying Gryffindor was around with his camera. Or better yet, Rita Skeeter. Unfortunately, she was waiting in the Trophy Chamber with the Champions.

The Ravenclaw table was in uproar as they looked around for their Champion.

Daphne rolled her eyes. Izar needed to start telling people where he was going. She sniffed with disdain and stood from the Slytherin table. She kept her face cool as eyes turned to her. When she incurred Dumbledore’s attention, she lifted her chin proudly.

"Izar is in the library, Headmaster.”

Laughter and conversation spread furiously across the Hall. What Champion—who put his name in the Goblet—would be in the _library_ when they were about to announce the winners? It was outrageous. Little did they know that Izar had _not_ put his name in the Goblet. Even Daphne wasn't thick enough to believe that.

But it did beg the question of who did.

Who was cruel enough to put in another's name? Especially another who wanted nothing to do with the Tournament?

Dumbledore nodded sharply and his expression twisted into one of understanding. It was if the Headmaster were chastising himself for not having known the answer soon. “Will you go collect him, Ms. Greengrass, and tell him to meet us in the Trophy Room?"

She nodded, keeping her cool as she swept from the Great Hall.

Izar wasn't going to like this at all.

And Daphne was looking forward to it.

*** * * ***

Izar pushed the parchment away, relieved to have finished the Charms essay in advance.

It was relatively easy enough and Izar was a bit disappointed that it hadn't challenged him. Hopefully Defense Against the Dark Arts would be a bit more… difficult. Even if the material wouldn't challenge Izar, the professor would. Tomorrow was his first class with Sirius Black and Izar knew he would have to work hard showing his indifference with the professor.

But now that he was done with his homework for the night, he had time to look into the Dark Mark.

He had already searched the _Eruditio—_ the gift Riddle had given him—to see if there were any spells to determine a wizards' wand core. However, the information had been very limited. There were a few potions that broke down the properties of a wand, but the potions took months to brew. Not only was it time consuming, but the brewer would actually _need_ possession of the wand in question.

Why, in Merlin's name, would someone create such a useless potion? Obviously, if someone had the wand in their possession, finding out the elements could be achieved with a simple _charm_. Izar was more than certain Voldemort wouldn't lend his wand.

It was pathetic.

And the few spells inside the book contained the same guidelines. He _needed_ to hold the wand in order to find out what the properties were.

Izar had entertained the idea of asking Ollivander—the renowned wandmaker.

Though, even if Ollivander agreed to answer Izar’s questions, there were still issues and concerns.

No two wands were the same—even if they had matching cores. Because of this, Izar realized that if he gained knowledge on Voldemort's wand core, it would still be difficult to manipulate the Dark Mark unless it was _identical_. He needed to determine the type of wood Voldemort had as well. When he had watched Voldemort heal him, Izar observed the lighter wood that could, perhaps be yew, maple, or even balsa.

It was frustrating.

Izar tapped his own wand on the table, eyeing the eleven-inch Indian rosewood with a Thestral hair core. It would be rather ironic if Voldemort had the same, but Izar doubted it.

And then there was the question if Izar needed the same _creature_ who donated its feather, hair, or heartstring. It would probably make manipulating the Mark more obtainable, but… thinking about searching for the exact animal seemed impossible. He needed to ask Ollivander. Though, Izar doubted the wandmaker would disclose private information on a wizards' wand properties.

" _Izar!"_

He flinched.

The ceremony couldn't be finished already, could it? He had been looking forward to his time alone in the library. "Yes, Daphne?" he replied imperturbably as he looked up at the blonde. Immediately, he noticed her wicked grin and Izar wasn’t in the mood to hear about the gossip of the Champions. "If you've come to—"

"Headmaster Dumbledore wants you in the Trophy Room. Now." She grabbed Izar by the arm and hauled him cleanly from his chair.

He blinked. Merlin, she was so _strong_ for such a little thing.

"I need my things.” He batted her persistent hands away in order to pack his schoolbooks. "What did Headmaster Dumbledore want to discuss with me?" He shot a look at the smug girl. "Isn't he supposed to be meeting with the Champions to discuss the First Task? What does my attendance have to do with the Tournament?"

"Do you have to ask so many questions, Izar?" She hooked her finger into his sleeve and pulled him out of the library as soon as he shouldered his bag. "Not everything in life needs to be analyzed so…" Her face screwed up rather cutely. "So provisionally..."

Izar’s eyes narrowed with amusement. "My, my, Daphne, 'provisionally' is a big word for _you_. Do you even know what it means? I would had suggested ‘thoroughly’, but I'll give you credit for trying to impress me with your exceptional, albeit imperfect vocabulary. "

She threw him a nasty look before releasing his sleeve. "You're the Champion for Hogwarts."

"Excuse me?" Izar chuckled.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared at him evenly. "I'm not joking, Izar. Your name came out of the Goblet. Dumbledore wants you in the Trophy Room with the other Champions."

His amusement died. When he realized she wasn't fooling around with him, Izar turned his heel and quickly made his way to the Trophy Room.

“Good luck!” Daphne called after him.

This couldn't be.

He didn't put his name in the Goblet. The age-line restricted him from crossing. Not only that, but he wasn't remotely interested in the Tournament. The very thought of competing set Izar's teeth on edge.

He ran an anxious hand through his hair, disordering it severely.

Izar opened the door to the Trophy Room, swallowing thickly before walking down the stairs. He heard the arguing. They were arguing about _him_. Izar paused, unsure if he really wanted to go down there. They actually thought he put his name in the Goblet. How amusing was that? It was the last thing he ever wanted and hopefully Dumbledore knew a way to get him out of the Tournament.

But even Izar knew it was impossible to withdraw from the Tournament once the Goblet selected its Champions.

Professor McGonagall's voice floated up the stairs. "If anyone can successfully cross Albus' age restriction line, it would be Mr. Harrison. The boy is remarkably adept."

“Surely this is something worth investigating.” The voice had a very thick Norwegian accent. " _Someone_ must have tampered with the Goblet. We should not have the boy competing." The man—Izar believed it might have been the Minister of Norway—sounded as if he were accusing someone of sabotaging Izar.

At least _someone_ was on his side.

"Or…" a female French woman—surely Madame Maxime, the Headmistress of Beauxbatons—interrupted, "as Minerva has explained earlier, the boy could have achieved such a feat himself. Evidently, he is smart enough to do so. There is no need for suspicions and speculations, Minister Steiner. Surely the boy just wants glory, fame…"

"The boy does not strike me as someone who searches for attention," Snape’s grim and deep baritone intervened.

"Then why wasn't he at supper?" Maxime questioned. "I'm sure the boy was too ashamed to face the consequences of his wrongdoings."

"Or…" Izar drawled as he stepped off the last stair and into the fire-lit chamber. All heads turned to him. “ _‘The boy’_ could have simply been in the library completing his Charms essay.” He shrugged. "But I suppose your theory sounds so much more… scandalously riveting."

The whole group was gathered in the Trophy Room. The Headmasters and Headmistress, the Ministers of each country, and a few other professors and politicians. There was also one Undersecretary of the Minister. Tom Riddle. The Dark Lord stood among the group, looking oddly casual and scarily unobtrusive. But Izar knew he was anything but ordinary. Every time the man moved, he demanded attention.

"Izar." Dumbledore swept forward, his brows furrowing with concern. He held up a hand, halting a blond woman and her cameraman from approaching. "Not yet, Rita," Dumbledore commanded sharply.

Rita Skeeter. Izar withheld a grimace.

Dumbledore opened his mouth, most likely to demand if Izar had put his name in the Goblet, but he was interrupted.

" _This_ is the boy?" Maxime demanded with an exaggerated look down at Izar. "He looks no older than thirteen."

Izar flinched. This time, he sneered. "If we are judging age by height alone, Madame, you must be pushing—" A hand closed around his shoulder, cutting him off before he could insult a very prominent figure in the French world. Izar refused to look down in shame, but he did glance at Snape, silently thanking the man for silencing him.

"A Slytherin!" Rita exclaimed excitedly as she looked between Severus Snape and Izar. After all, what other student would be comfortable in Professor Snape's presence? "There hasn't been a Slytherin Champion for over thirty years!"

"Yes," Izar drawled, “because the raven on my school robes resembles a serpent exceptionally well _._ "

Rita cleared her throat, finally noting his Ravenclaw robes. She sniffed, looking away as if she hadn't heard Izar's remark.

A hand steered him away from both Snape and Rita. Izar found himself looking up into the concerned face of Albus Dumbledore. The old Headmaster stooped low in order to meet Izar's eyes more comfortably. "Did you put your name in the Goblet, Izar?"

“No, Headmaster, I would never put my name in the Goblet. The very idea of the Tournament turns me off." A few snorts were heard from the spectators, but Izar paid them no heed. His eyes were locked on Dumbledore's genuinely curious gaze.

The Headmaster smiled softly and straightened. "Do you have any suspicions of who would put your name in the Goblet?"

"Perhaps an older Ravenclaw," Izar muttered before realizing it wasn’t the best thing to say. But if _anyone_ put his name in the Goblet against his will, it would be the older Ravenclaws. Wasn't it only days ago when they expressed the importance of Izar bringing glory to their House? Or maybe it was in attempt to belittle Izar and bring attention to his inadequacy.

Dumbledore raised his brows, appearing truly surprised. "Why would your own House want to put you in danger?" As Izar looked away, Dumbledore remained persistent. "Izar," the man gently persuaded.

"We've had a few disagreements, that's all," Izar said quickly.

"I'd say let the boy compete.” 

Izar turned, his eyes immediately drawn to the tall brunette across the room. The Durmstrang Champion appeared far too haughty as he examined Izar with a sardonic twitch to his lips. If the student wiped the arrogant smirk off his face, Izar believed he would have looked marginally handsome. Except for the hair. While it may have been every female's envy—silky and straight—it covered one of his blue eyes. Clearly, the boy believed it was fashionable, though Izar didn’t find it convincing in the least. 

Just behind the Durmstrang Champion stood the Beauxbatons Champion. The redhead appeared a far kinder as he offered Izar a small smile.

"Besides," the Durmstrang student continued with a scoff, "if it comes down to it, I don't even think he'd be able to reach the Trophy."

Izar bristled, his eyes narrowing into slits. Why was everyone attacking his height? "Is this coming from the boy who wouldn’t be able to _see_ the Trophy past the curtain hanging uselessly in front of his face?"

The Durmstrang students' eyes grew wide before narrowing thoughtfully.

"I'm afraid, no matter the consequences, Mr.—" Riddle began, motioning toward Izar as if he'd forgotten his name.

The man was _brilliant_ at acting the politician.

" _Izar Harrison_ ," McGonagall supplied, casting an incredibly stern look at Riddle over her spectacles.

"Mr. Harrison is entitled to compete, no matter his age. Once his name is pulled from the Goblet, he becomes legally obligated to participate in the Tournament until the last Task." Riddle flashed Izar a strained smile—as if politically required to treat him with respect despite his own opinion on the matter. "It's a pity this had to happen. If we find evidence that you placed your name in the Goblet, Mr. Harrison, I can assure you that you will face some serious consequences. There are many people relying on Britain succeeding this year."

His words were so real and so well versed, Izar found it hard not to believe the man.

But just _how_ did the Dark Lord feel about Izar's participation in the Tournament? Was the man truly disappointed that Izar's name was called? It was difficult to tell, and Izar knew he wouldn't know the man's true feelings for quite some time.

Next to a silent Karkaroff, the Norwegian Minister looked just as bemused as Izar, if not a bit suspicious.

"Now, now, Mr. Riddle.” Dumbledore placed himself in front of Izar, cutting off Riddle's intense stare. "Mr. Harrison is just as guilty as the rest of us. There is no certainty as to whom placed his name in the Goblet. I can only hope you will support Izar instead of slighting him."

If Dumbledore was suspicious of Tom Riddle's true identity as a Dark Lord, then the old Headmaster would know of Riddle’s dislike for Muggle-borns. Dumbledore, in turn, would believe that Riddle was repelled with Izar because he was impure. Izar being the Dark Lord’s Death Eater probably wouldn't cross Dumbledore's mind.

"Gather ‘round!" Rita took control of the situation, motioning the Champions near the hearth. "We will need a photograph for tomorrow's story. Of course, we'll take more photos at the Wand Weighing ceremony, but we must tease our readers! It is all about the subscriptions!" She appeared all but tickled as she debated on the perfect pose for all three Champions.

 _Wand Weighing ceremony…_ Izar pondered over that briefly, ignoring the Durmstrang Champion's stare.

"Harrison could stand on the chair over there,” the Norwegian boy proclaimed. “At least then, he may be as tall as us."

Izar threw the chair in question a look before crossing the room. Ignoring the surprised scrutiny from the others in the room, Izar lowered down. The chair resembled a throne and Izar settled assuredly upon it. With an arrogant swipe of his leg, he crossed his legs and placed both hands on the armrests.

He flashed a smug look at the affronted Durmstrang boy. "Or maybe you two can situate yourself _around_ me."

Originally, he had been horrified at the prospect of participating in such a Tournament. But after interacting with the Durmstrang boy, Izar realized how fun it could be trouncing on the boy's pride. Just because he was Hogwarts' Champion, didn't necessarily mean he had to be in the limelight all the time, did it?

But then he remembered the projects he had wanted to complete before the year was over. Immediately, he became a bit disheartened. Maybe stepping on the Durmstrang boy wouldn't be as fun as it sounded. Not when he already had so much to balance.

This year was going to be _chaos_.

*** * * ***

Tapered fingers unrolled the _Prophet_ while his free hand grabbed his cup of tea.

Grey eyes glimpsed at the front page. He snorted as he read the headline. So, it appeared as if the Triwizard Tournament would be taking place at Hogwarts this year. He examined the photo of the three Champions, uninterested, yet curious at the same time. It was always amusing to see if he recognized familiar wizarding names he went to school with.

It seemed like ages ago, yet it had only been sixteen years.

His gaze immediately focused on the boy in the middle. His heart thumped once before it sped rapidly. His left hand collided shakily with the tea, sending the fragile porcelain cup clattering to the ground. It broke in pieces, sending hot liquid everywhere.

"Kreacher!" he yelled, his hoarse voice indication he did not speak often. His feet burned from the spilt tea, but he hardly noticed as he clutched the _Prophet_ closer. He trembled. Thick grief washed over him. "Damnit, _Lily_!"

He threw the _Prophet_ down, and in a fit of rage, he brought back his arm and pushed all the porcelain dishes off the table.

"Master Regulus, _sirs_!" Kreacher cried.

Regulus whimpered and collapsed into his chair. He covered his vulnerable face with his hands. No matter what he thought about Lily before, no matter how much Regulus had suffered for the betrayal almost fifteen years ago, it would never compare to _this_ , this betrayal. Not when a child was involved. His child.

"We leave for Britain, Kreacher."

Once Regulus pulled himself together, he stared down at the _Prophet,_ his eyes obsessively drinking in the boy. His name—rather ironically—was Izar. Izar was the star in the constellation of Boötes, conveniently located in the same constellation as the star Arcturus. There were three generations of Arcturus' in the Black family. Not only that, but Regulus' middle name was Arcturus.

The surname really _itched_ him the wrong way. Harrison. Izar Harrison. Regulus raked his fingers through his hair, his teeth on edge. _'An orphan, a Muggle-born orphan'_ the paper read. What in Merlin's name was Lily playing at?

"Britain? Master Regulus?" Kreacher’s ears flopped forward. "But the Dark Lord, Masters—"

"It doesn't matter," Regulus snapped harshly. "Pack my things. We're leaving as soon as possible."


	10. Part One, Chapter Ten

**Part One, Chapter Ten**

Izar remained focused on his textbook in order to avoid the scrutiny from the students. Because they had never heard of him, they were curious and invasive about the declared Hogwarts Champion. The rumors were outrageous, as was the endless gossip and giggling.

The first day of the scrutiny had been uncomfortably tolerable, but it became increasingly more difficult to endure the concentrated spotlight. He was not familiar with the constant notice—the constant attention. He couldn’t even eat properly, having decided to wake up early to grab breakfast and avoid the Great Hall altogether during lunch and dinner.

The thought of trying to eat in a crowded Hall set his stomach ablaze with unfamiliar anxiety. 

While his House mates all wanted to know how he was able to pass the Age Restriction line, Izar was left pondering the identity of the person responsible for putting his name in the Goblet.

More importantly, _why?_

"Good morning." Sirius Black entered the classroom with an especially proud spring to his step.

Izar looked up lazily from his book, watching as the man walked behind his desk and peered down at a roll of parchment. “Please state that you are present.” With a flourish, he dipped his black-feathered quill in ink before going through roll call.

Sirius Black seemed to have a bit of an identity crisis. He straddled the line between a grim professional and overeager schoolboy. Upon recognizing a student’s surname, he would all but jump excitedly and start questioning the student about their relatives. Izar observed as Anna Beth Clark, a sixth year Hufflepuff, blushed and replied to Black’s eager questions. Apparently, after a few casual question-and-answer rounds, Black claimed he had gone to school with _both_ her mother and father and hadn’t known they’d gotten married.

But upon encountering a surname he did not recognize—

“Izar Harrison,” Black’s voice dimmed and sobered.

Charcoal-green eyes focused sharply on the man's bowed head, realizing he had not looked up at Izar as he had for the other students. Instead, his fingers tightened and curled around the side of the desk and there was a stubborn knot to his jawline. Oh, but clearly the man _wanted_ —almost _needed—_ to look at Izar.

"Here, Professor Black," Izar drawled.

Black breathed heavily, his resolve clearly crumbling as he looked up at Izar. The wizard appeared instantly shaken. He shifted uneasily and quickly averted his eyes while running a nervous hand through his hair. In an attempt to hide his disquiet, Black hurriedly looked back down at his desk. For quite some time, he stared unseeingly at his parchment before continuing the roll call in a subdued tone.

Izar narrowed his eyes and contemplated the reaction.

Surely he didn’t resemble the Blacks _that_ much.

He then noticed he’d garnered Granger’s speculative observation and promptly buried himself back into his book. She was an annoying Mudblood who always stuck her nose into other people’s business. She didn't have many friends, if any at all. Like Izar, she preferred books to socializing, but she also preferred drawing attention to herself by asking endless questions in class and providing long-winded answers. 

"I've glanced over the coursework provided by your previous professor." Completed with roll call, Black ambled around his desk and leaned against the heavy piece of furniture. His eyes remained focused on the opposite side—conveniently away from Izar. "While they have all covered the material adequately, there is one area that has been neglected. It's an area I believe—as an Auror—is very important for any witch and wizard to master."

Izar closed his book, interested to hear what the man had to say.

"Dueling."

Izar’s mood abruptly plummeted.

Dueling wasn't his strong suit. He had never participated in a duel before. Well, that was a _lie._ He had once, and it had turned out horribly. Whereas Izar could successfully pass any verbal, written, or practical exam, he always had difficulty with dueling. He thought too much. His mind would always provide him with far too many possibilities on which spell to use as offense or defense and the subsequent reason why they would or would not work.

He was not quick, nor instinctive.

Therefore, Izar never signed up for dueling competitions, knowing he’d only make a fool out of himself.

“To prepare, I'd like for you to read the first two chapters of your textbook. In there, you will find the formal etiquette and traditions one needs to abide by in formal dueling. There will be a two-foot essay due next class period."

Groans were heard from the Hufflepuffs. Black chuckled.

"I'm just kidding." His chuckle died when the Ravenclaws merely blinked at him with confusion. The man cleared his throat. "There will be no homework assigned,” he specified. “But I expect you all to _read_. You may do the reading for the rest of the class period here or in the library.” The Auror moved down the aisle of students, heading toward the exit. "Dismissed."

He was out the door before any student had the chance to stand up.

The class remained seated, whispering among each other about the odd proceedings. There was hardly a time a professor dismissed a class early, almost an _hour_ early, and left before the students.

Izar thought it was rather amusing. Had he driven the older wizard away? Hopefully he would see a bit more _balls_ from his uncle later on in the semester. While it had been satisfying watching Black shift uncomfortably and avoid even looking in Izar’s direction, it was also nice to see some family resemblance when it came to character.

"Are you related to Professor Black?" Granger whispered as she leaned over his desk. 

Izar found himself nearly distracted by her overly large front teeth. "We both have dark hair and a pale complexion. If you think that is all that is required to be related to Professor Black, I'm afraid you have more than half of Hogwarts to interrogate." Izar packed his things, ignoring Granger's flush upon her cheeks.

Before he could leave, she stopped him again.

"Izar," she said breathlessly, "I've noticed you skipping meals…” Sensing his dwindling patience, she continued with a quieter tone, “Right beneath the Great Hall, there is a portrait of a bowl of fruit. Tickle the pear and you will find yourself presently surprised." She offered him a mystifying smile before leaving the classroom.

Izar stood stiffly, wondering if it was worth following her advice. 

It was.

*** * * ***

_Izar,_

_It pains me that our first contact should be through letter as strangers, when all I want to do is speak to you in person and make up for the years we lost together. I need to see you. Will you at least allow me that privilege? I understand you may not even know who I am, or you may not trust me, but I hope you are curious enough to hear my side of things. You have a Hogsmeade trip next weekend, isn’t that correct? Should you be willing to meet with me, I will see you at Hogs Head._

_Desperately anticipating our meeting,_

_R.A.B._

Izar clutched the torn and worn piece of paper, grimacing at the wall across from him. He had received the letter several days ago, and the Hogsmeade trip was already _here._ Tomorrow. Izar had been unimpressed when he’d received the letter from the ‘proclaimed’ deceased Regulus Black. Snape may have alluded to him being alive, but Izar had been more than happy thinking he was dead.

So, why was Regulus contacting Izar now?

He knew why.

Because both his name and photograph were in the papers now.

He was declared 'noticeable', not only by the population of Hogwarts but by the Wizarding world as a whole. Regulus had clearly taken notice and felt the need to contact Izar, his _bastard_ son. Did the man want to get on good terms now that Izar would bring fame to the family name? Winning the Tournament was surely enough bragging rights for a half-blood wizard to comfortably carry a pure-blood name.

He clenched his teeth. He didn’t want to meet Regulus. He would have enjoyed making the man sit and wait at Hogs Head all day. However, Izar’s curiosity was at its highest. He _had_ questions. Questions only Regulus could give him.

"Izar!"

Izar quickly pocketed the letter as he felt Daphne’s magical aura make its way down the corridor behind him.

She’d be upset at his avoidance this past week, but she wasn’t the only one Izar was hiding from. He’d been able to keep his head down these past several days, going about his business without having to interact with many people. Thanks to Granger…Merlin…he never believed he’d say that…. _thanks to Granger,_ he discovered the kitchens and took his meals in solitude.

"You've been avoiding me too long," the short witch said sternly. "I'm not going to put up with it anymore, do you understand me?"

Izar glanced down, meeting her dark green gaze.

"Yes ma'am," he replied impassively, far too accustomed with her ridiculous demands to take her seriously.

Her hands fell to her hips. "If I wasn’t so upset, I may be impressed at how easily you can disappear. The only reason I knew you were alive is because we have a few classes together. And then you just _leave_ as soon as we're dismissed." She sounded crestfallen, and Izar couldn't help but to grin. "You aren't at any of the meals, and you aren't in the corridors after classes. You’re even avoiding the library!"

"I apologize," he said out of obligatory instinct. "I’d just rather stay _away_ from it all.”

She forcibly looped her arm around his and pulled him down the corridor. “You're eventually going to have to step out of the shadows, Izar. You are going to be an adult soon, one that will need to interact with others politically.” She glanced up at him. “We can work on that together, you know. Maybe I can finally be _your_ tutor."

Izar smirked. "Just because I'm Hogwarts Champion doesn't mean I'm suddenly a dancing politician, Daphne."

She glowered. "I'm not just talking about this Tournament. You’re not far from graduating, and you’ll be on your own then. You'll have a job—and what if you find yourself working in the Ministry? What if you have a job that requires dancing etiquette? You’ll need some skill to keep afloat in a position dominated by pure-bloods."

He wasn't planning on working in the main sector of the Ministry.

Little did Daphne know that Izar already had his dream job in the bottom levels of the Ministry. He didn't plan on doing anything else. The only difference he wanted to make with his job was actually producing useful experiments to the wizarding population. Izar just hoped Owen—the Head Unspeakable—wouldn't make Izar do Time Turners again this upcoming summer.

"I don't know if I can handle your social circles, Daphne. The last thing I want to discuss is Pansy Parkinson's choice in hair clip or Draco Malfoy’s newest item he received from daddy.”

She flashed him an unimpressed look. "We've never discussed things like that, Izar." She then sniffed. "You're hopeless. Someday, I will get you to enjoy politics. You'll be just as good as any pure-blood."

Izar gave a hum, disinterested.

Before they could merge with a busy corridor, Daphne paused and held Izar back. With her right arm still looped with Izar's, she dug through her book bag. "I designed something for the students of Hogwarts with you in mind. You wouldn’t have noticed—seeing as you were hiding in dark corners or under your bedsheets these past few days.”

She pulled out a deep blue armband.

On the armband, elegant bronze calligraphy spelt out ‘ _Support Izar Harrison!’_ before the words changed into, ‘ _Support Hogwarts!’._

"The Slytherins started the trend of wearing them on their left forearm." She gave him a meaningful look as she handed him the armband. Now that they stood in a lighter part of the corridor, Izar could see Daphne wearing her own. "I thought it would be a clever idea if you have to reveal a bit of skin during one of the Tasks. You always need to be prepared."

Izar took the band, feeling a bit touched. “You knew?" He fingered the silky armband, staring at the calligraphy.

"Of course I knew," she whispered quietly. "I was there when you were Marked.”

He looked at her in surprise.

“Most of the Hogwarts' students who are Marked were in the back, but I could spot you miles away. The Dark Lord seemed to be especially excited about Marking you." Her lips twitched and her eyes grew excited. "He favors you, and he doesn’t make it a secret, either.” Her expression then dimmed. “Most of the Death Eaters are envious."

Izar snorted as he put the armband in his bag. He would certainly wear the armband underneath his robes to cover the Dark Mark from potential mishaps. Despite the fact that the Dark Lord Voldemort was not yet widely known to the world, it still wasn't something to be advertising.

"I'm serious, Izar. You should be careful. Many of the student Death Eaters have been rather vocal about why the Dark Lord would favor a…" she trailed off, her usual cool façade slipping.

"They want to know why he favors a Mudblood?" Izar finished.

"It's wrong of them not to do their research before passing judgment.” She pouted as she brushed Izar's robes affectionately. "Have you ever thought _they_ were the ones to put your name in the Goblet?"

"A jealous Slytherin that wanted me out of the way? Or to humiliate me? Perhaps," Izar mused. In all actuality, that sounded entirely plausible. "But I'm not favored by the Dark Lord. Just because I was presented the silver mask doesn't mean he necessarily 'favors' me."

"Whatever you say, Izar." She smoothed her hands down the front of his robes before turning. "You should be getting to the Wand Weighing ceremony. I'm sure the Norwegian Champion is gloating because he hasn’t needed to share the spotlight with you all week.” Her eyes narrowed. "You _do_ know that Lukas Steinar is the son of the Norwegian Minister, don't you?"

"I'll let the topic of you knowing my schedule drop. For now." Izar averted the subject away from Lukas, simply because, no, he hadn't known Lukas was a Steinar or the Norwegian Minister's son.

Daphne would never let Izar live down his ignorance if she knew.

"I'm expecting you to sit with me tonight at dinner," she called after him as he hurriedly swept away from the darkened corridor.

Izar didn't have the heart to tell her he wouldn't be attending dinner tonight. He might as well take advantage of the kitchens as long as he could.

He glanced at his old pocket watch and cursed. He was a bit late.

Fortunately, he was only a few paces away from the classroom that the ceremony was taking place at. Nevertheless, if Tom Riddle was present, Izar was _sure_ the man would make his displeasure known. His Dark Mark had been burning lately, as if the man was displeased with Izar. But Izar couldn't remember doing anything that would upset the Dark Lord.

He opened the door to the classroom, taken aback at how small the room was. Most the desks were pushed to the sides of the room, creating a bit of space in the middle. There was a larger table at the head of the room which housed all six judges. Upon Izar’s entrance, all eyes turned in his direction, some disapproving, some welcoming. 

The Ravenclaw quietly shut the door behind him, eyeing the two Champions, Rita Skeeter, and her photographer, Bozo. But more importantly, Izar kept his attention on the silver haired man in the corner.

 _Ollivander_.

"Mr. Harrison, good to see you.” Dumbledore stood up with a warm smile as he ushered Izar deeper into the room. The man wore a set of mauve robes with small crescent moons on them.

Izar found himself rather amused by the old man. "Headmaster," he greeted as he watched one of the moons grow arms and wave. "I like your robes. Very ingenious."

The man all but beamed, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "Thank you, my boy." The Headmaster paused before leaning down to murmur in Izar's ear. "If you'd like, I can give you the name of my tailor."

Izar's Dark Mark burned rather fiercely, but he remained neutral in the eyes of Dumbledore. "Perhaps later, Headmaster," Izar conceded as he glanced at the Dark Lord beyond Dumbledore’s shoulder. Only, Tom Riddle wasn't looking at Izar. His attention remained on the few papers before him.

After ushering Izar to a seat with the other two Champions, Dumbledore reclaimed his position at the head table. "Now that we are all present, I'd like you all to meet the judges this year. For Hogwarts, we have both myself and Mr. Tom Riddle, the Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. Regrettably, Cornelius Fudge won't be able to take his place as a Tournament judge. He has many projects to take care of at the Ministry."

Izar withheld an ironic laugh.

Riddle nodded at the Champions, his eyes briefly dancing over Izar before turning away nonchalantly. The Dark Lord _was_ upset about something, and Izar was utterly clueless as to what it could be.

"For Durmstrang, we have Headmaster Karkaroff and Minister Bjørn Steinar."

Bjørn Steinar and his son shared the same hair and eye color, but that’s where their similarities ended. Bjørn was not an especially attractive man, but he had charisma that made him noticeable. Izar didn't like him, but perhaps his dislike originated from his disclination toward politicians in general, or because of his relation to Lukas.

"And lastly, for Beauxbatons, we have Headmistress Maxime and Minister Serge Roux."

The two French individuals looked rather amusing sitting together. While Maxime was incredibly tall and large, Minister Roux was a smaller man, both in height and weight. He wore heavy glasses and his long grey hair was tied at the nape of his neck. He appeared bored sitting at the table, and he didn't offer the students a nod like the others had. Instead, he looked at Dumbledore, silently asking when this would all be over.

Izar took a liking to him.

"Rita Skeeter will cover the Tournament this year and will be overseeing the Weighing of the Wands."

"And hopefully some photos," Rita announced eagerly, winking rather suggestively toward Izar. "The camera is picky about who it loves, and it seems to favor one of the youngest Champions."

All eyes turned to Izar, who deadpanned.

He would be damned if he allowed Rita _near_ him.

"Anything for you, Rita," Dumbledore agreed charmingly as he motioned Ollivander forward. “You will have your time with the Champions momentarily.” He placed a hand on Ollivander’s shoulder. "May I present you all with the expert in wand making, Mr. Ollivander? He will be seeing to your wands today to make sure they are working properly for the Tournament."

Dumbledore then motioned to the redheaded Beauxbaton’s Champion.

"Mr. Beaumont, why don't you go first?"

Izar watched the proceedings with interest.

Ollivander seemed to possess a sixth sense when it came to wands. He was able to tell the length, the wood, and the core even if he hadn't been the one to craft the wand itself. It was intriguing, and Izar felt a bit of hope with his problems. Ollivander _must_ know about Tom Riddle's wand. After all, Izar was sure Riddle had purchased his wand at Ollivanders when he was a young boy.

Cyprien Beaumont had a Veela hair core, and Lukas Steinar, the Durmstrang Champion, had a Dragon heartstring core.

Izar and Lukas traded looks as the latter sat back down.

"Mr. Harrison." Dumbledore motioned him forward.

Rising from his chair, Izar approached Ollivander, remembering his first encounter with the man at the age of eleven. "Ah, Mr. Harrison." Ollivander seemed a bit more enthusiastic as he reached for Izar's wand. "I remember this particular wand very well. An eleven-inch Indian rosewood with a hair of a rather stubborn and prideful Thestral."

Izar refused to react when he felt Riddle's mocking eyes on him.

Ollivander studied Izar with a small smile. "I will say the same thing I said to you four years ago, Mr. Harrison. Your wand is remarkably unyielding and destined for _very_ great things."

The wandmaker flicked Izar's wand, sending wine spitting from the top.

Dumbledore clapped merrily, thanking Ollivander. Before Izar could react, everyone stood up and started to congregate together just as Ollivander slipped out the door. For being an older man, the wandmaker could move quickly. Just as Rita was gathering everyone around for a photograph, Izar slipped in the background before phasing out the door.

"Just _where_ did that boy go?" Rita's shrill voice followed Izar's heels as he hurriedly climbed the stairs.

"Mr. Ollivander!" Izar yelled after the wandmaker. The silver haired man turned, eyeing Izar with curiosity. "Please, this may sound odd, but I was curious to know if you remembered every wand you ever sold?"

"Of course, my boy." Ollivander smiled mysteriously. "Every wand is ingrained in my mind. I always spend quality time with each wand after I create it."

Izar wished he were talking with Ollivander under different circumstances. The man knew a great deal about wand cores and it was a fascinating topic worth delving further into…if Izar wasn’t so focused on the Dark Mark. "Could you, perhaps, recall Tom Riddle's wand core? I'm—I’m ah…curious to know if his wand core is as…talented as his character."

Merlin, Daphne would balk if she heard that sad attempt of maneuvering.

Ollivander's face darkened and his smile was forced. "I'm sorry, Mr. Harrison, but I'm afraid Mr. Riddle has asked for my word of confidentiality regarding his wand." The man frowned. "Rather peculiar, really. He just asked me to keep it private today, just before the ceremony started."

Izar turned cold.

Voldemort couldn't _possibly_ have known Izar was searching for his wand core, could he?

"I… thanks anyway, Mr. Ollivander," Izar spoke without really hearing himself.

He turned, wondering where to go from here.

"Izar," a voice rang from the top of the stairs.

Feeling his pulse race, charcoal-green eyes slowly looked up, locking eyes with charmed brown. Voldemort motioned Izar forward with a beckoning finger. Could fingers look smug?

"Come back inside, we must take one photo together, you, Headmaster Dumbledore, and I."

Feeling rather defeated, Izar slowly walked up the stairs. As his fingers brushed the wrinkled parchment in his pocket, he grew even more disheartened.

Things _had_ to look up eventually.

Didn't they?


	11. Part One, Chapter Eleven

**Part One, Chapter Eleven**

Hogsmeade was just like it was every time Izar visited; crowded, loud, and full of rude and overeager people.

With his hood drawn, he swam through the mass of bodies toward the Hogs Head. Considering the sensitivity surrounding his meeting, as well as his most recent fame, he didn’t want to attract notice. The last thing he needed was someone from Hogwarts following him and identifying the recently resurrected Regulus Black.

He ducked behind the crowd and finally arrived at the putrefied footstep of Hogs Head.

He was here, but was he ready?

Pausing momentarily, Izar cursed his hesitancy and opened the door to the tavern.

Izar had sought refuge here enough times to anticipate the loud squeak resulting from the hinges. The tavern was typically his quiet escape from the normal hustle and bustle of Hogsmeade. While the patrons were rather dodgy, Izar found he preferred how they all kept to themselves. Most importantly, they were not throwing elbows or shouting among each other.

Aberforth Dumbledore stood behind the counter, his sunken eyes watching as the hooded figure lowered his hood. A small grin eased the grumpy lines across his face as soon as he recognized Izar.

"Hello, Aberforth," Izar greeted softly as he approached the vacant bar.

He tried to ignore his racing pulse, otherwise he would have to acknowledge how nervous he was to meet Regulus. There were several patrons scattered throughout the hazy tavern, mostly all cloaked in shadow or under hoods as they slumped over their frothy ale. His eyes did not linger. He would let Regulus approach him.

Izar carefully avoided dragging his only decent cloak across the ground. It was so filthy, it appeared as if the pub had forgone floorboards all together and merely used packed dirt and layers of gluey goo. With the back of his hand, he wiped off the dust and dirt from the stool before settling down.

Aberforth grunted. “Izar.” His hands were preoccupied with wiping down a mug with a rag that appeared as if it had seen better days. “I heard you got yourself a bit of glory.”

"Yes," Izar said wryly, “eternal glory."

The man's bright blue eyes rivaled those of his older brother's as he carefully assessed Izar. "Not too happy about the selection, eh?"

Izar offered the man a small grin. "What gave it away?"

Aberforth grunted again as he took the polished—or semi-polished—mug and poured a bit of butterscotch-colored liquid inside. "Why don't you have a butterbeer? On the house."

The older wizard slid the mug across the bar top. The liquid sloshed violently over the lip as Izar stopped it with the palm of his hand. He stared at the vaguely dirty mug, a bit surprised at the gesture. "No, no, I can pay for it…" He trailed off uncertainly as his hands went automatically to his empty pockets. He knew he didn't have any money on him.

When did he ever have any money?

"Don't be silly," Aberforth growled as he removed another dirty glass to polish. He sniffed as he worked a rather stubborn stain. "When you win your Tournament earnings, you can pay me back in threefold."

“It’s a deal.” Izar leaned forward and sipped the foam at the top.

It warmed his throat and eventually his whole body. He knew the first couple of sips would probably be the only ones he would enjoy, for he felt someone approach him from behind.

_Here we go._

*** * * ***

The photographs in the paper hadn’t done him any justice.

Regulus curled a hand around his mug as he eyed Izar from beneath his hood.

The boy had a small stature, but that was entirely unsurprising considering Regulus had been just as small at that age. He’d experienced his growth spurt far later than his male classmates. Body stature aside, Izar may have carried traits belonging to Lily and her side of the family, but the Black qualities were painfully evident and rightfully dominating.

He possessed the Black patrician features with the prominent cheekbones and the delicate, but sharp jawline. A straight nose was faultlessly situated over full lips. And the eyes… Regulus had been fascinated with their color when he had observed Izar in the papers. The shape of them were entirely Lily’s, but the color was a unique green with enough grey to set them apart from hers.

Izar was a thoroughbred aristocrat.

Was it wrong for Regulus to feel proud over something as trivial as appearances? Was it wrong to revel that this child resembled the Blacks? No, he imagined it was entirely justified.

He sat up, knowing he could not gaze at a distance forever. There was a certain excitement over the prospect of getting to know this child. He knew nothing about Izar. Merlin, he didn't know if Izar knew about _him._ Lily must have raised him. But then why was his surname 'Harrison'? Why did Izar wear robes that appeared as if they were secondhand? And trainers that looked worn?

As he took note of Izar's robes, he observed the Ravenclaw colors.

Regulus experienced a quick twang of disappointment that Izar wasn't in Slytherin like the rest of his family. But Ravenclaw was a noteworthy exception. Both he and Lily would have excelled in Ravenclaw, after all, they had both turned out to be Unspeakables, if only for a short time on Regulus' part.

Regulus stood up abruptly when he noticed a dastardly looking wizard approach Izar from behind.

It had been many years since Regulus had interacted with _people_. He just hoped he would appear capable enough in the eyes of his son.

*** * * ***

Izar expected Regulus to come up behind him. However, he did _not_ expect the cold and greasy hand lingering across the back of his neck and the foul smell of unwashed body to encompass him.

If this was Regulus, Izar would turn his heel from the pub and never look back.

His eyes flashed as he eyed the man pushing up close beside him.

"Back up, Gorgon, he's only a school boy," Aberforth growled distastefully.

Gorgon wheezed as he pressed closer to Izar. “I just wanted to see if he wanted a bit of fun, Ab. Nothing to worry your head over." Filthy eyes turned back to Izar, who gazed jadedly back. "What do you say, pet?" Gorgon leaned forward with a lavish lick to his lips. "Want a bit of a 'toss?"

A ring-clad hand suddenly grabbed hold of Gorgon's greasy head before promptly slamming it against the bar. A bit of blood splattered on Izar and the counter as Gorgon slumped to the ground dazedly, blood dripping steadily from his nose. Izar caught sight of the flashy heirloom ring on his _savior's_ hand and knew instantly that it was Regulus Black.

Izar sighed deeply, trying to cover up his anxiety of finally meeting the man. He wiped the bit of blood from his sleeve, mourning the stain on his decent robe, before gathering his courage and looking into haunted eyes.

He ran a quick eye across the wizard. "Well," Izar started off dryly, "at least you don't smell like body odor, but a bit of grooming would go a long way."

One word to truly describe Regulus was _rough_.

The paranoia Regulus carried, and the ghostly look in his eyes _nearly_ detracted attention from the heavy beard across his face.

Regulus offered a bit of a grin as he stroked his beard. On his index and middle finger, a ring flashed back at Izar. "I usually don't grow a beard or allow my hair to grow long, but it disguises me a bit." He clearly didn’t speak much, for his voice was hoarse and raspy.

"You mean people will hopefully mistake you for your brother."

It was true. Despite Regulus appearing a bit lither than his brother, he did resemble Sirius with all that _hair._

All pretenses suddenly fell away once Regulus realized that Izar knew of his identity. He abruptly took Izar's face in his hands and kissed him on the forehead. The man then took Izar in his arms, clutching him to his chest. "Forgive me,” he murmured into Izar’s ear, “but I cannot make myself shake hands with a son I was cruelly kept away from all these years.”

Izar hadn’t…expected this.

He had imagined Regulus being like all the other smug, entitled pure-bloods. He would have thought Regulus had known about his existence and had readily abandoned him. He didn't expect to see a man who looked as if he had been on the run—or rather in hiding—and he certainly didn't expect his first hug to be from his long-lost father whom he’d cursed for the better part of his childhood.

Izar sat stiffly, unaccustomed with the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Then you must forgive me for not trusting you yet," he said rigidly.

Regulus slowly pulled away and nodded. With a surprising amount of impassiveness, he ushered Izar off the stool and escorted him to a table in the corner of the tavern.

"You must have heard about me," Regulus started the conversation as soon as they sat down. "You appear to know me—of me—and our situation. Lily must have told you then." The man’s face darkened and an unnerving smile crossed his face. It reminded Izar of Bellatrix’s smile. "I can only imagine the lies she has spread. I wonder why you even bothered to meet me."

Regulus then looked frantically around the pub, as if he expected Lily, or perhaps Voldemort, to spring out of nowhere.

Izar reclined further against his chair, frowning at the tabletop full of scratches, stains, and nicks. He gazed slowly back up at the man, assessing him thoughtfully. It could be a rouse, but Izar was beginning to suspect that Regulus truly hadn’t known.

Anything.

With a bitter smile, Izar leaned forward. "Lily didn't raise me. I don’t even know her." He scowled. "I was—and am—residing in a Muggle orphanage."

Regulus' expression crumbled into weariness and he ran a hand down his face. Grey eyes then focused on Izar. "Then how did you know about her? About me?" He sighed. "I don't understand why she would do this…"

Izar ignored the last bit. “I just found out recently. Before then, I brewed a heredity potion a few years ago." He grinned humorlessly. "Someone had blocked my lineage. I realized my father or mother was magical and they didn't want me to find out about them. I stopped caring when I came to the conclusion that they’d been embarrassed about their bastard son.”

Regulus slammed his palm against the table and leaned forward. "That is _not_ what happened, damnit. You must know that I had no knowledge of your existence. She lied, she betrayed, she was and is a cruel _bitch_. The only reason I found out about you is through the _Prophet_. Your picture—you look so similar to me when I was a young man. And your age fit exactly…"

"Where were you?" Izar asked bitterly. "Everyone thinks you're dead. Lord Voldemort thinks you're dead. How can you fool them?"

Regulus looked around the pub before pulling up his left sleeve.

Izar's eyes widened when he witnessed Regulus' naked forearm.

"I'm not a Death Eater," Regulus whispered quietly. "My family was very loyal to the Dark Lord. When I was young, I did him many favors, but I was never Marked because I was still attending Hogwarts." His eyes clouded with past memories. "I betrayed him, yes, but that is another story entirely, a story Lily participated in just as much as I did.” He paused. “Severus Snape was the one ordered to kill me."

Izar sucked in a breath. "Professor Snape betrayed the Dark Lord's order? He made everyone believe he killed you while allowing you to run? Is he really disloyal to the Dark Lord?"

Regulus appeared reluctant. "Severus is loyal to the Dark Lord, but he and I shared a friendship that surpassed that loyalty. We agreed I would never return to Britain, and that we would never make contact again. Even if I am not wanted by the Ministry, I cannot show my face because Severus would be in great danger. But I can't possibly stay away when I have found a son—a son who was raised by _Muggles._ "

Regulus reclined against his seat, his eyes intent on Izar.

"What I want to know," he continued with a protective bite in his tone, "is how you found out about us if your lineage was blocked?"

Izar knew it would come to this. It was better if Regulus knew now rather than later. It was evident the man already had his suspicions. "My second cousin had the decency to provide me with the information. She told me she witnessed your ‘pathetic affair’ with Lily…"

“And how did you get in contact with Bellatrix? The last I knew she was wanted for questioning by the Ministry and chose to stay in hiding." Regulus’ jaw clenched as he glanced at Izar's left arm. "How did you get in contact with her, Izar?" he repeated again, this time oddly serious and every bit livid.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Izar said. "I met her during my initiation."

Regulus laughed dreadfully. "The Dark Lord is Marking rather young, isn't he? He must be feeling a bit pinched with the lack of followers."

Izar remained silent, feeling a slight twinge in his Mark. As he happened to glance out the foggy and grimy window, he saw none other than the Dark Lord approaching Hogs Head.

_Bloody hell._

Izar quickly turned back to Regulus and frowned. This wasn’t how he wanted things to turn out. "I think you should go back into hiding. I am loyal to the Dark Lord, Regulus, but I will commit this _one_ act of treason because I am fond of Severus Snape. I appreciate your attempt to include me in your life, but I don't need you or Lily,” he said bluntly. “I can handle myself."

Regulus shook his head stubbornly. "I cannot do that, Izar."

Izar stood up. He reached across the table and lowered the man’s hood with a certain amount of remorse. "Then you would be risking not only your own life, but Severus' and mine as well." Izar allowed his fingers to linger across Regulus' cheek before pulling away.

A hand gripped his wrist, holding him back. "You are _my_ child—"

"I'm doing this for your own safety. Bow your head and don't get up to follow me."

Regulus frowned at his persistent tone, but his fingers reluctantly unshackled Izar.

The younger wizard made it across the room just as the tavern door squeaked open. If at all possible, the atmosphere in the pub grew considerably darker. The Dark Lord's magic wickedly rejoiced as it gleefully encompassed the wizards and witches in the pub. Men hugged their mugs closer, hunching in on themselves as they avoided eye contact with the stranger who was eerily silent but possessed an incredibly loud presence. 

Curious, Izar glanced over his shoulder, instantly noticing the Dark Lord did not have his glamour up.

He didn't think he would ever get used to the Dark Lord's magic.

It was exhilarating.

He was curious to know what Regulus had done to betray the Dark Lord if the man hadn't even been a Death Eater, but Izar had to muffle his curiosity on the matter. He carefully tried to clear his mind of the meeting, not wanting the Dark Lord to catch any thoughts on the matter. Izar sent a silent prayer to Merlin, hoping Regulus would go by undetected.

From the corner of his eye, Izar watched as Voldemort stopped at the bar directly next to Izar and placed his hand on the counter.

Izar cupped his hands around his lukewarm butterbeer, trying to keep his eyes away from the Dark Lord. It was difficult, especially because he felt the red eyes roaming the side of his face.

"How much for the room above? I only need a half an hour at most,” Voldemort inquired.

Aberforth looked between Izar and the Dark Lord, his expression blank. "One Galleon."

Aberforth's eyebrows rose as he watched the Dark Lord remove a Galleon from his cloak and slide it across the bar. The pub owner then took the Galleon, biting on it once before taking out a key from his pocket and presenting it to the Dark Lord. Izar set his mug down as he felt the cool hand curling briefly around the nape of his neck.

"You, child, are going to accompany me."

The wizard offered the slumped and dazed Gorgon a brief, considering look before leading the way to the back of the tavern. Sliding off his stool, Izar followed the Dark Lord's tall frame into the closed space of the stairwell, feeling Regulus' eyes trail after him.

_Don't think about that…_

"Why am I not surprised to find you here?" Voldemort started unkindly as they made their way upstairs. “If one needs to locate Izar Harrison, all they must do is search the least populated and most forsaken dark corner.”

Izar did not respond as he watched the Dark Lord fit the key in the rusty lock and open the door.

No good could come from this visit.

Once they were inside, Voldemort turned and lowered his hood. "I want you on your knees.” His tone was cold and unfriendly, very similar to the tone he’d used last week with the Mark fiasco.

Izar dropped to his knees before proceeding to lower to his forearms. He knew the Dark Lord wouldn’t just want Izar on his knees. He would expect a formal bow, and Izar got into position before the man had to ask. As he placed his forehead against the floorboards, he watched the boots reposition intentionally near his forehead.

It was to establish submission and dominance and Izar hated every second of it.

He closed his eyes against the floor and tried to envision himself elsewhere, and while that worked for a time, the seconds stretched into minutes of complete silence. He grew uncomfortable as the Dark Lord’s gaze all but burned a hole through the back of his neck. Was he to say something? Was he missing an important step to this whole master-and-servant game?

“I—” Izar cleared his throat as he spoke to the floorboards. “I can't think of any reason for you to doubt my standings, My Lord. I have done nothing—"

"Exactly. You have done _nothing_."

Izar frowned at the harsh tone. "Then forgive me, My Lord."

Voldemort’s robes whispered as he moved into a crouch opposite of Izar. A light, nearly non-existent touch swept through Izar’s hair, tugging at a particularly stubborn curl. "Do you even know what you are asking forgiveness for?" The tone this time was tight as the Dark Lord struggled and failed to hide a note of amusement.

The Dark Lord oftentimes demonstrated extreme shifts in moods. Perhaps even more extreme than Sirius Black.

"No," Izar muttered as he glared at the floor. “ _My Lord,_ ” he carefully added a moment too late.

"Look up at me.”

Offering the ground another glare, Izar cleared his face and his mind before raising his head. Red eyes caught and held his stare.

“Most wizards and witches have goals, ambitions. Some struggle years—decades—before obtaining opportunities, and even longer to receive a _sliver_ of recognition. Yet you…you have received a quick and instant path to a vast _array_ of different possibilities from this Tournament. Many can only dream of being presented with such an opportunity.”

Izar had a hunch he knew where this was going. And he did _not_ like it.

“The spotlight is on you.” Voldemort’s tone cooled. “And what do you do with it? Instead of taking advantage of showing the world what you can do, and what a brilliant mind you possess, you hide in the shadows, you skip meals to avoid attention, and you snub your nose at such a golden opportunity. The only thing you are portraying to the world is that you are a coward.”

“I am _not_ —”

“Silence.” Long fingers curled around Izar’s jaw as Voldemort shifted closer. “Had you been someone else, your actions would have been inexcusably shameful, though I would not go out of my way to address it. But you are representing Hogwarts and Britain, and you are representing the Death Eaters. Moreover, I have high expectations of you becoming a prominent figure in the political world. I cannot have you _skulking_.”

That sent a spasm of panic through Izar. "But… My Lord,” he managed past the hand to his jaw, “I wish to remain an Unspeakable."

Split-crimson eyes narrowed and the fingers tightened. “That Mark on your arm represents your loyalty to me and not the Ministry, correct?" He didn't wait for Izar’s reply. "You will be—and become—what I want you to become.”

Izar seethed. "As My Lord _requests_ ," he hissed.

Voldemort’s fingers dug possessively around Izar’s jaw before he released him. He seemed to find something humorous, but such sentiments fell way as he stood. "Experimenting is where your passions lay, Izar, and I will not pull you away from your enjoyment.” He glided across the room. “However, I also expect your name to be well known throughout Britain.”

Izar was relieved the Dark Lord wasn’t intending to take him away the Unspeakables. “I understand what you want of me, My Lord, yet I am not good with public interactions." Voldemort glanced at him. "I don’t like people."

The Dark Lord’s smile was open. "Do you think _I_ enjoy people, little one?" Dark eyebrows rose. "But you are a Black. Blacks are all but bred to occupy political court." At Izar’s glower, the Dark Lord inclined his head. "I apologize," he said, not at all remorseful. "I promised I wouldn't mention that, didn't I?"

"It looks as if you'd forgotten.”

The Dark Lord waved his hand dismissively. “Start slowly. Attend meals. Engage your classmates in conversation.”

“Sounds absolutely dreadful.”

“Think of it as a game,” Voldemort continued without acknowledging Izar’s comment. “Find their weakness and learn everything there is to know about them. Play with them. Charm them.” Voldemort clearly read the apathetic expression across Izar’s face. “There will not be much time this year, but I anticipate bringing you to Ministry gatherings next year. It is best you practice before such an elite environment."

There were many things wrong with that statement, but Izar honed in on one particular detail. "Next year?" Izar pondered. What was happening next year as opposed to this year?

The wizard’s expression was entirely blank. "You may stand."

Unsurprised he would not be getting any answers, Izar stood and brushed the dust from his cloak.

"There is another reason I brought you up here.” Voldemort glided forward, appearing suspiciously delighted. "I have a project for you." The man slowly began to circle Izar. "It will take your mind off other…" Voldemort trailed off and raised his wand.

Izar's eyes narrowed at the sight of his current obsession.

" _Disobedient_ projects you have in that mind of yours."

Voldemort placed his wand against Izar's cheek, tapping it smartly before slowly drawing it down the Ravenclaw's jawline. The man was a bloody _bastard_. Izar kept his unhappy gaze focused directly on taunting crimson. It was settled then. Somehow, the Dark Lord knew of Izar's plan to find out his wand core. Was it Legilimency? Was it truly that easy for him to dive into Izar’s head?

Briefly, he wondered how long Voldemort would torture him if Izar were to reach out and grab the man's wand.

It was just one little spell and Izar would know the core.

"What project do you have in mind for me, My Lord?" Izar asked stiffly, trying—and failing—to pretend the wand meant nothing to him. 

"I want a portkey." Voldemort removed his wand after one last tap against Izar's cheek. "Not so much a portkey, but I want this device to be small and undetectable. I want it to be able to stick to another object—an object someone can grab hold of."

“You…want a minuscule portkey to attach to something that can't be made into a portkey?" Izar asked, a bit bemused. "You know, this would be a lot easier if you just told me the situation you're going to use it for."

The Dark Lord leveled him a warning stare. "It will be used during raids,” he said shortly. “For example, if I was in the Ministry, I would place your invention on Minister Fudge’s desk. Someone could touch his desk and it would bring them to a location where the other Death Eaters await. I want this portkey to be a timer of sorts, transporting all said army _back_ to the Ministry without them having to touch the portkey. After all, how could my whole army crowd around and touch a portkey? It wouldn't be possible."

"I see.” Izar’s mind raced.

It would be relatively easy. He would just need to shrink a portkey and replicate its effects onto the object it stuck to. There was also the added challenge of making it a self-timer as it transported a group of wizards within a certain radius.

"There are restrictions, of course,” Izar started. “How big would you like the radius to be? How long would you like the timer for? Will the Death Eaters be in position before the portkey arrives? And the location?"

Voldemort's lips quirked. “For this portkey, I will expect a…twenty-meter radius. As for the timer, let’s set it for twenty seconds, no more, no less. The Death Eaters will be in position, and I would like to be the one to set the location." His eyes scrutinized Izar closely. "Do you believe you can accomplish this? If not, I will ask another—"

"No," Izar interrupted quickly, insulted. "I can do it just fine."

The Dark Lord continued to watch him. “It is not that I doubt your capability, but rather the time constraints with the Tournament. You will need to put effort into preparing for the Tasks as well.” 

Izar shook his head. "If I find myself short on time, I will inform you, My Lord. However, I believe I can complete it before Christmas holidays." He lifted his chin confidently, hating himself for preening under the Dark Lord’s pleased expression.

“Good.” Voldemort motioned toward the door. "I will let you go. Enjoy the rest of your Hogsmeade visit."

Izar bowed stiffly at the waist before turning for the door. Before he could safely make it out, however, Voldemort stopped him.

"By the way, who was that man downstairs?"

Izar’s pulse skipped a beat. "What man, My Lord?"

“I believe he was nearly unconscious next to your stool."

Izar turned back around, relieved.

But then the man continued. "Who did you think I was referring to? I certainly wouldn’t be asking after the man in the corner with the Black family ring on his finger."

After a moment of composing his reactions, Izar looked away from the red eyes, scoffing. "That was Sirius Black," he lamented. "I thought it would be beneficial to ask for his help with dueling this year. I thought, with the Tournament and all, I would need a bit more help."

His whole body flushed.

Voldemort would detect the lie, and quite frankly, it was a poor lie.

Surprisingly, Voldemort did not call his bluff. His expression was entirely blank and he seemed to hug his magic close—for it did not give any clue to his mood. “Dueling,” the Dark Lord repeated quietly. “See to it that you do set up a schedule with Professor Black. It will be vital going forward, especially with the Second Task. I will check in with your progress.”

The Dark Lord then lapsed into a silence and stared at Izar. Realizing Voldemort was dismissing him, Izar offered a hasty nod before opening the door. With a cautious step, he made it safely into the hallway without a hex to his back. He paused, turning back to look at the Dark Lord. The man still stood motionlessly; his gaze unnervingly observant.

Without wasting another moment, Izar turned and fled from the room.

As he made it down to the tavern, Regulus was nowhere in sight.

The only problem?

Izar would need to actually ask Sirius Black for assistance with dueling. As well, he should probably _beg_ Severus Snape to help him with Occlumency. But then Izar remembered Voldemort admitting that he didn't enter one's mind gently. Izar hadn't felt anything enter his mind—not even a tickle.

Izar had a hunch that the man was just _that_ good. No one could hide anything from the Dark Lord. Well, Severus Snape was an exception. After all, he was able to fake Regulus' death without Voldemort being none the wisest.

…or had he been?


	12. Part One, Chapter Twelve

**Part One, Chapter Twelve**

“Mr. Harrison. This is certainly a surprise.” Professor Black stared unblinkingly down at Izar before remembering his manners. He cleared his throat and moved aside. "Please, come in."

Izar entered the man’s office, ignoring Black as the man motioned to the chair in front of his desk. Rather, he chose to stand stiffly by the door, wanting to end his misery as quickly as possible. He cursed himself—and Regulus—for his current situation. He cursed Voldemort even more so for having played along with Izar’s blatant lie, expecting he follow through on such ridiculousness.

"Professor," Izar started, reminding himself that this was _essential,_ "I was wondering if you could assist me with dueling."

Black lowered behind his desk with a confused quirk to his brow. “As I mentioned in class, we will be focusing on dueling for the remainder of the term. I anticipate all the students will see remarkable growth with their dueling skills."

“I don’t doubt that, Professor, but I need additional help. At least to get me started. I am quite poor at dueling, and I feel as if I could benefit from a one-on-one tutelage to establish a good platform.” He paused as he considered the possibility of Black turning him down. He had a way out of this, he realized. He’d just tell Voldemort that Black had refused to teach him.

“Of course,” he started casually, “if it's too much of your time, I can ask someone else. Perhaps you can recommend someone?"

“That won't be necessary.” Black was entirely ignorant to Izar deflating. “I am here to help my students in any way I can. You took the initiative to approach me, I can only assume you are… _serious_ about improving.” The man offered a goofy grin before suddenly turning contemplative. “You wouldn’t happen to have a Thestral wand core, would you?”

Izar was taken off guard at the unusual question. He didn't see any harm confirming, after all, it would be published in the _Prophet_ eventually.

"Yes, Professor."

Black nodded as if Izar's answer was all he needed in solving a mystery. "I have a Thestral wand core, as did my brother and my parents before me." He studied Izar's expression, trying to gauge a reaction. "It runs in the Black family. Even my cousin has a Thestral wand core."

“Is that right?” Izar was immediately intrigued. The whole lot of Blacks had Thestral wand cores? Perhaps Izar could find out if wand cores _did_ run in families and then research—or ask Ollivander—what wand core Riddle's ancestors possessed. Voldemort asked the wandmaker not to divulge his own wand core, not that of his family members.

"Ollivander once joked that he would need to reserve a whole Thestral just for the generations of Blacks." Black chuckled darkly, yet his eyes fervently observed Izar.

Izar feigned ignorance to Black’s single-minded focus. "Is that common, sir? For family members to share similar wand cores?"

Black shook his head. "No, it’s not common. The Blacks always did pride themselves with being exceptions to the norm.”

Izar's eyes dropped to Black’s fingers, searching for a family ring. Even if a member of the family wasn't declared the 'heir' or ‘head’ of the family, they would still receive a ring with the family crest. And with Regulus faking his own death, surely Black had inherited _something._ However, Black’s fingers were naked. Izar thought it was a pity. Sirius may have been a Light wizard, yet his magical strength and his dueling abilities would be useful to the Dark.

"When would you like to schedule our lessons?" Black glanced at his calendar. “With the Tournament this year, Quidditch is canceled so we won’t need to work around practices or games.” He appeared bashful. “I tend to enjoy watching them play. Do you play?” he asked suddenly. “I imagine you would have made an excellent Seeker. My younger brother, Regulus, was a Seeker for Slytherin—"

"You know, sir, you aren't very subtle, though I suppose subtly isn’t a trait most Gryffindors excel at,” Izar drawled, growing tired playing ignorant. “Is there something you wish to ask me?”

Black had the decency to look abashed. "Are you related to him?" he asked quietly.

"Related to whom?"

Grey eyes appeared exhausted. "My brother," he whispered brokenly.

Izar considered the man closely, noticing the shadows and wondering about them.

He hoped Regulus had departed from Britain after their meeting at Hogs Head. If he had, it may save Snape’s neck and even Izar’s for having blatantly lied to the Dark Lord. There was little reason for Regulus to remain in Britain. Izar hadn’t needed a father growing up, so why would he need one now? It did not bother him that he’d never speak to the man again.

Or so he liked to tell himself.

It didn’t stop him from relishing in the fact that his father hadn’t abandoned him intentionally as a baby. It didn’t stop him from wanting to know more about Regulus and his past. 

"No," Izar lied. "Both my mother and father were Muggles who died in a car crash."

Instead of being relieved, Black appeared disappointed. He set down his quill and stared blankly at the parchment in front of him. "I apologize. It was silly of me to ask. Regulus died when he had just graduated from Hogwarts. He wouldn't have had any children at such a young age. But you look very similar to him…"

_and me…_

Izar tried to offer Black a sympathetic smile, but it came out horribly.

Black cleared his throat again and straightened. “Right. I know the Tournament will take up most your time, but I'm sure we can schedule a night or two during the week." He grabbed his agenda and flipped through the days. "Do Wednesdays and Fridays work?" Grey eyes looked up at Izar. "Around seven?"

"Seven sounds perfect." Izar absentmindedly played with the hem of his sleeves. "Thanks for agreeing to help me, Professor Black."

Black nodded, appearing a bit reluctant. "In class this past week, I have noticed you seemed…distracted while dueling. But you have potential,” the man hastily added, reading Izar’s dismay. “You have good reflexes and the spells you cast are very advanced and appropriate for the situation." Black cocked his head. "What goes through your mind when you duel?"

Izar’s attention lifted to the bookcase behind Black’s desk, focusing on the piece of furniture in order to quell the embarrassment. His incompetence had been noticed.

"I am thoroughly analyzing which spells would be most appropriate and the drawbacks of each.”

The man chuckled, inadvertently adding insult to injury. "I suppose many people would be envious to have such an artillery of knowledge." He stood up. "You should use the first spell that comes to you."

"The first spell?" Izar repeated—horrified. "But… there could be other hexes that may be better suited for the duel."

"Dueling is about reflexes and speed. It’s about tactics and taking your opponent by surprise. You can cast the tickling charm at your opponent throughout the course of the duel and still come out as the victor. The more you duel—the more experience you build—the more natural it becomes.” He smiled. “Give it time. We’ll make a master duelist out of you yet.”

Izar allowed himself a thin smile to answer Black’s own. "I will take your word for it, Professor." He took a step back and turned for the door. "I'll see you this Wednesday then."

"Tuesday. In class," Black corrected.

"Tuesday.” Izar nodded sharply and retreated from the classroom.

It took a great deal of effort not to look back and meet the contemplative eyes of his uncle.

*** * * ***

Izar took a deep breath as he approached the Great Hall for dinner.

The students should all be back from Hogsmeade, filling their sugar-coated bellies with a decent and balanced meal. He paused outside the door, his fingers splaying across the aged wood. Voldemort had all but threatened Izar about attending school meals, to actually show his face and…and _socialize_. Izar shuddered at the thought. This would be his first major public appearance since his name was called from the Goblet. And while Daphne suggested there were students supporting him, he felt as if he were entering enemy territory.

He stepped out from the shadows and cautiously entered the Great Hall.

The few students who did take note of his presence weren't kind enough to keep it to themselves. They leaned over to whisper to their neighbors, spreading a wildfire of rumors and gossip around the Hall.

Izar kept his steps unhurried and poised as he passed by the eager Ravenclaw table and made his way to the Slytherins.

It wasn't against the rules for Hogwarts students to sit with the other Houses, and it wasn't frowned upon— it just wasn't practiced very often. Izar was still wary around his own House, and they would do nothing but hammer him with questions tonight. Slytherins would be more reserved, even if they _were_ curious.

"Izar.” Daphne stood up to greet him with a wide smile.

The other Snakes weren’t nearly as welcoming, though they weren’t entirely hostile. They gazed at him coolly, albeit appreciatively, a blue band across several of their forearms declaring their support for him.

“Hello, Daphne.” Izar sat down with the Slytherins, his Ravenclaw robes clashing among the sea of green. Happening to glance up at the High Table, he met eyes with Undersecretary Riddle. The man seemed pleased as he raised his goblet and offered a subtle toast in Izar’s direction.

Izar looked away, irked.

Of _course_ the Dark Lord would be pleased Izar was here, especially with the Slytherin table, _his_ House. No matter if Severus Snape was declared the Head of House for the Slytherins, Voldemort would always hold more sway over the students than the potion master.

Izar could see them all gaze at the Dark Lord, admiring and hoping to be noticed.

They appeared particularly desperate. They would never be noticed by Voldemort. Did they not _understand_ that? They were lowly wizards for the Dark Lord's amusement. They were numbers, just a mere figure on a field, whether that be a chessboard or a battlefield. They weren't held in favor of the Dark Lord, especially if they were the third tier to his circle.

Even if they were granted with a gold mask—an inner circle position—they would still be considered a mere pawn.

Granted, they’d be noticed considerably more than the third tier, and perhaps that's all they really wanted. Notice. Izar had to put himself in their position. Even if he enjoyed the shadows, he was confident enough to admit that he was thrilled whenever the Dark Lord gave him attention. If he was one of the students—of the third tier—he would also desire Voldemort's attention with aspirations of climbing the ranks.

It was pathetic, but that was also what made a powerful and influential Dark Lord. One had to have alluring charisma.

He glanced back up at Riddle, noticing the Dark Lord had yet to look away from him. 

"He seems oddly happy tonight." Daphne observed their interaction. "He was riled for most the week as of late." She rubbed her left forearm inconspicuously.

Izar caught a few hostile stares from the Slytherins and raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Don't pay any attention to them." Daphne threw a poisonous look at her classmates. "They're just jealous that _he_ pays attention to true talent."

Upon her derisive comment, they turned away and focused their attention on their meal in front of them. Izar noted they were the ones who didn't wear an armband supporting him.

He sensed a spark of magic and turned toward the flicker, locking eyes with stormy grey. Draco was sitting a few spots away, his left arm free of the band. Izar usually didn't sense a very strong aura from Draco, but tonight, the aura was restless. He was clearly angry and his magic was affected by the strong spikes of emotion. Despite his hostility, however, his face was completely frozen.

Distinctively, Izar remembered Malfoy had wanted to be declared the Hogwarts' Champion.

“I didn't put my name in the Goblet," he told the other boy. Why he thought he owed an explanation to Draco, he did not know.

Draco's eyes narrowed. "It was meant to be me." A haughty look crossed his features. “There is nothing special about you."

“I could say the same about you," Izar countered back without pause.

A few Slytherins snickered, their expressions varying from disinterest to naked approval for disparaging their Slytherin prince.

With an angry blush across his face, Draco abruptly stood up and sent his goblet sprawling with the back of his hand. It echoed across the Slytherin table, its contents spraying across Izar and the neighboring Slytherins. They made noises of disagreement, glaring at Draco, but it was nothing compared to the raw hurt and anger across Draco's face. The boy was utterly furious.

The Malfoy heir's nostrils flared and his eyes dilated with anger. " _Toujours Pur,"_ Draco hissed, his French flawless and thick. "It means 'Always Pure'." Draco's smile twisted humorlessly.

Izar noted the dark circles under the boy's eyes. He also noticed Professor Black making an appearance in the Great Hall. The man was about to sit, but the familiar French motto no doubt rang through his mind.

The Ravenclaw stiffened, his joints taut.

Surely Draco wouldn't…

"It's the Black family motto. Always Pure. And it will _never_ apply to you."

Izar shook his head, not in answer, but a warning for Draco to shut up.

"You're a filthy Mudblood." Voices of agreement danced across part of the Slytherin table, consisting of mostly older Slytherins. Despite the fact that Draco continued with a quieter voice, there were others who overheard him. "I have no idea why _he_ and my father kiss your arse. But you will always, _always_ be dirty. You will never be pure and respected because you are vile. It doesn't matter who your father—”

Izar was up within seconds despite Daphne's hold on his arm.

Magic probably would have been more efficient and quicker, but he didn't trust himself with his wand. A Dark curse would have come out, and Izar didn't want to deal with those consequences.

Draco's eyes widened as Izar collided with him, sending them both to the ground.

The Hall exploded with noise of excitement as students all rose from their seats to catch a glimpse of the action. They cheered them on, nearly shaking the entire Hall with their rambunctiousness. Izar held the boy by the shoulders with a vice-like grip. Looking down at Draco, he observed again how emotionally unstable the boy appeared. The blond wizard's eyes were deranged and exhausted.

Draco must have been going through something… something _big_ to act out in public like this. Malfoys would _never_ create a scene.

"Shut up," Izar hissed. "You agreed not to say anything,” he murmured, trying to calm the boy. "I don't mind jabs at my blood status, but don't you _ever_ mention anything about my parents."

He got a fist in the nose as a response.

As Izar closed his eyes against the pain, another fist caught his jaw before a set of hands shoved him backward. All too familiar with physical torment from the orphanage, Izar pushed away the pain and returned Draco’s assault. The blond boy’s defenses were weak and soft—indication he had no idea how to engage in a Muggle fight.

Izar was able to return Draco’s hit to the nose, immensely satisfied to hear the crack.

Before anymore punches could be thrown, however, they were pulled apart. Hagrid picked up a bloody Draco and began hauling him out of the hall. Draco glanced back at Izar before his gaze drifted up to the High Table. Whatever he saw there caused his entire persona to shift into sheer panic and distress.

Izar refrained from looking himself, already feeling the Dark Lord’s displeasure.

"Follow me, Mr. Harrison. To the Hospital Wing with the both of you." Professor McGonagall’s hand clawed at his shoulder as escorted him out of the loud and boisterous Great Hall. 

This incident surely wasn't what the Dark Lord had expected for Izar's return to the public.

*** * * ***

Two weeks of detention and one hundred deducted points later, Izar and Draco were given the clear by Madame Promfrey to leave the Hospital Wing. Both students were slowly relacing their shoes, knowing full well they’d both overacted and had been an embarrassment to their classmates, Head of Houses, Voldemort, and most importantly, themselves.

"I apologize," Draco said stiffly, breaking the silence. They were the only two students in the Hospital Wing and Madame Promfrey had just bustled into the back room. "I realize my actions were horribly Muggle and graceless. You had every right to attack me up… no matter how Muggle _that_ was of you," he said snidely.

Izar sat at the edge of the bed and looked up from his laces. "It was either a physical alteration, or the new hex I read about. I’d found a spell to transform your internal organs into parasites that consume you from the inside out."

Draco stiffened. "I would have never done it, you know," he said quickly. "I would have never said Regulus was—"

"It was enough," Izar snapped. "You’d said enough for even Crabbe and Goyle to determine I was related to the Black family."

Despite his nonchalance upon discovering his family, or more specifically, discovering a father, the boy's words had stung a bit. He realized he probably wouldn't fit into the Black family expectations. He would never be pure enough. In fact, Izar wondered if he was the first Half-blood born into the Black family.

"If they ask,” Draco started, “I'll say it was in reference to my family. After all, my mother is a Black."

Izar could tell from the boy's tone that Draco wasn't all that sorry. The blonde was just sorry for acting out in public. He was sorry for getting caught and for having the Dark Lord witness it. "I told you I didn't enter my name in the Goblet," he emphasized slowly. “I don’t know what your problem is.”

"I know you didn't enter," Draco snapped. "I was told _I_ was going to be Hogwarts Champion. How could—"

The boy shut up as a face emerged from the shadows.

Both students scrambled at attention, their spines rod straight. 

Draco appeared to make a move to drop to his knees. "Please, forgive my mistakes, My L—"

“Mind your surroundings, boy.” He moved past Draco without so much as a glance. “This is the second time today that we meet on unfortunate terms, Mr. Harrison." The undersecretary came to a stop directly in front of Izar. "I trust you realize how pathetic you looked? I don't mind a bit of competition among the ranks, I do, however, mind the sheer _mockery_ you made of yourself."

Izar kept his head bowed. "I understand, sir. I should have handled the situation more maturely."

Riddle appeared unimpressed. "The first Task is in two weeks. The Champions and their respective Ministers, or, in your case, Undersecretary, will be meeting for a formal luncheon before the Task. I expect you will not only be on your best behavior, but that you will _impress_ me. Acting like a Muggle hellion will only fuel my suspicions that you need etiquette lessons from Rubeus Hagrid."

Only because he knew the Dark Lord would not see it, Izar smirked at the imagery. It was difficult imagining the half-giant giving etiquette lessons, especially after watching the man blow his nose on the table cloth at meals. Izar knew very little about formal mannerisms during a luncheon. He would have to brush up on the etiquette—or at least ask Daphne.

"By the time the luncheon arrives, Undersecretary Riddle, I will be sure to have a stick up my arse. Surely, only then, will I fit in with the rest."

Draco's head turned so fast, a joint in the boy’s neck cracked.

It was a bold comment on Izar’s behalf, especially considering the circumstances tonight, but he was testing the waters with the Dark Lord. If what Daphne said was true, and that the Dark Lord favored Izar, then Izar wanted to see how far he could push the Dark Lord.

"Be sure you do that," Riddle said quietly. “Should you need assistance, I am more than happy to provide a helping hand.”

Izar's eyes widened. His cheeks burned slightly as he willed away his shock. The man hadn’t gotten mad, he had _bloody_ retaliated.

Riddle continued without a pause. "As for you, Mr. Malfoy, you created such a distasteful and terribly melodramatic performance this evening. One that I'm sure your father will be pleased to hear about. To think, his son's mannerisms dip below even that of a Half-blood raised in a Muggle orphanage."

Here, Izar scowled.

Riddle all but glided as he approached Draco, bringing with him an uncanniness that sent uneasy chills down both students’ spines. His eyes seemed to sparkle wickedly as he closed the distance and leaned down to put his lips directly next to Draco’s ear. Izar watched the scene from the corner of his eye, unable to hear what Riddle was saying, but judging from Draco’s whirlwind of emotions across his face—it wasn’t pleasant.

Trepidation turned into surprise, which then altered into resentment before that soon fell way to extreme fear. Draco’s flushed cheeks abruptly paled and he cowered, trying to appear as small and as submissive as possible before the Dark Lord. All the while, Riddle’s magic curled around him in serene and gleeful waves.

Izar stiffened when Riddle looked at him from over Draco’s bowed head. A slow and unnerving smile curled the Dark Lord’s lips as he turned and departed from the Hospital Wing.

Izar and Draco spent the next several minutes rooted in place, the latter trembling like a leaf.

*** * * ***

His stomach growled loudly, resonating across the cold dungeons and drawing Severus away from his work. He stood stiffly from his stool, making certain the stirring rod continued to move clockwise in the new batch of Pepper-Up Potion. Hogsmeade days were prime opportunities to replenish Madame Promfrey’s stock of potions. Without the distractions of students or coursework, he always managed to complete several batches and then some.

Likewise, without distractions, he often lost track of time.

Casting a tempus charm, he realized he was several hours late for dinner. Glancing at the number of cauldrons and the state of brew, a quick mental math informed him a call to the kitchens was in order. It would be a late night.

Suddenly, a presence made itself known in his open doorway, drawing Severus’ sharp attention. At first, he assumed the hooded figure to be the Dark Lord. His potion-stained fingers danced lightly across his left forearm before dropping. It was not the Dark Lord. This figure was shorter, nor did the Dark Lord make a habit of roaming the halls of Hogwarts looking painfully conspicuous.

"Yes?" Severus drawled impatiently, taking note of his wand just inches away.

"Can you help an old friend, Severus? Yet again?" The voice was hoarse and scratchy, rough and unused.

Regardless of what form that voice took, Severus could identify it anywhere. “Regulus.” He braced himself on the counter to compose himself. It had been _years_ —too long. He watched as Regulus lowered his hood to reveal a grim smile.

Severus recovered quickly and sneered. “Looking a bit rough.” 

Regulus chuckled, his bright grey eyes absorbing Severus closely. "Izar said almost exactly the same thing.”

"You went so far as to speak with him?" Severus’ eyebrows rose. “ _Fool_.”

"He's my _son_.”

He had anticipated stirring from Regulus when Izar was made Champion, he just hadn’t expected him to be so bold. Issuing a heavy sigh, he motioned for Regulus to enter. "Shut the door behind you. Quickly. The Dark Lord is in the castle today." He turned his shoulder on the wizard and grabbed a rag. He rubbed persistently at his potion-stained fingers and nails, knowing he looked a sight.

But had that ever mattered before? 

The door slammed shut.

Severus cast a silencing ward around the room, making certain they were as protected as they could be at Hogwarts with a Dark Lord roaming the halls. “You're not only putting yourself at risk, but both Izar and myself."

"Odd," Regulus remarked shortly, "that's what Izar said as well." He moved down the aisle of brewing potions and stopped before the golden cauldron. He examined if for quite some time before turning and contemplating Severus. “Surely, you’re not corrupting my son, Severus. I am beginning to feel as if my presence is not wanted here."

"Then you would be right to assume so. What had you expected? A warm, welcoming reception?”

He turned his back on Regulus to tend to his potion, pleased to see the mint green hue beginning to blossom through the murky jade. He touched the glass stirring rod, beginning to stir counterclockwise before releasing it. The stirring rod continued its stirring—approximately seven minutes would do.

"I would have thought," Regulus began again, “that Izar would have _at least_ feigned interest at my presence.”

Severus preoccupied himself with the ledger of potion ingredients. "Izar," he started, “is an exceedingly independent wizard. He's also intelligent. He knows you betrayed the Dark Lord, and I assume you informed him of my involvement with your escape?" Onyx eyes noted Black’s sharp nod. “Then he was right to distance himself and tell you to leave."

Closing the ledger with a _snap,_ he turned to consider Regulus. He knew the man was far too stubborn to remain in hiding. No doubt the wizard was carefully strategizing ways to get around the Dark Lord. 

It was _not_ possible. Not again.

"You know I always wanted a son… a child,” Regulus murmured darkly.

"Yes," Severus drawled, "I know all too well."

"Severus," Regulus' tone dropped unhappily.

Severus stiffened. "I will entertain your presence tonight, Black, but by no means will I discuss the past or the _ghastly_ relationship you shared with Lily Evans."

Regulus came to a stop directly across from Severus, appearing pained—as if _he_ were the victim. Severus was momentarily distracted, realizing Regulus had grown considerably during his stay away from Britain. The last time they’d seen each other was fifteen years ago. The man had just turned eighteen when he left Britain.

Regulus was as tall as him now. While the fifteen years had been hard on both men, Regulus somehow seemed to have lost his boyishness and embrace manhood. Surely Severus had changed just as well, only, the long hours of potion making turned him yellow and greasy, while the life of a fugitive had made Regulus gaunt and harsh.

“You say you want my help?" Severus smothered his resentment of the past and leveled Regulus with a stern look. “Go back to where you came from. Do not return. Do not reach out to Izar. The Dark Lord is wrapping his ropes around the boy and it will only end poorly for you.”

“That is your help.” It wasn't a question, only a numb acceptance.

"That is the only help I am willing to give you. If you do not hold my life in high regard, think of Izar's freedom. The Dark Lord will surely use _this_ —your sudden reappearance—against him. I can only imagine the things he'll make Izar agree to in order to protect his estranged and immensely foolish father."

Regulus turned away and quietly observed the wall of potion ingredients.

“As always, you are correct. Leaving Britain would be the most logical answer. It would keep my loved ones safe, both Izar and…" Grey eyes turned and looked at him pointedly. " _You._ However, I cannot continue hiding. I’m growing deranged in isolation and I cannot reasonably give up my son. There has to be a way to come back without the Dark Lord going after Izar and yourself."

"There is no way," Severus argued fervently. "The Dark Lord knows _all_. I would be extremely surprised if he hasn't already picked up on your presence here." He pushed off from the desk and crossed the room slowly. His mind raced with possibilities of a safe passage for Regulus, a safe passage _out_ of Britain.

"I am not wanted by the Ministry," Regulus calmly stated.

"The Dark Lord _is_ the bloody Ministry." Severus hissed. “I'm certain he would find—or create—enough reasons to convict you into Azkaban."

Regulus chuckled ironically, his face contorting scornfully. "He…" the man paused, his lips thinning and his eyes alighting with an idea. "How favored is Izar to the Dark Lord?"

Severus’ eyebrows rose. "Whatever makes you think Izar is worthy enough for the Dark Lord's notice?"

Regulus shook his head. "He was barely fifteen when he was Marked." He began to pace and rake his fingers through his long, unruly hair. "I met Izar at Hogs Head today. The Dark Lord entered not too long after, bringing Izar upstairs with him. Surely, a low-ranking Death Eater wouldn't be pulled aside so privately." A sudden realization crossed Regulus' features. "The Dark Lord knew Izar was a Black, didn't he?"

“It is possible. The Inner Circle had their assumptions. I am certain the Dark Lord was just as perceptive.” Severus examined Regulus. “It wasn’t as if he was hidden very well. He looks like a Black, his name is that of a Black.”

Regulus resumed his pacing. “So, he knew. Izar is one of the last remaining Blacks of the predominant line. He’d want to make haste grabbing him for his collection. If he took possession of Izar when he’s young, he can condition him to his liking. Without a stable father or family, Izar is susceptible to such an influence.” He suddenly turned and gazed at Severus. “Is it sexual?” 

Severus’ lip curled with extreme disgust, though his initial reaction tempered as he recalled the boy’s initiation, as well as the way the Dark Lord had…tended to the boy with the infection of his Dark Mark. “The boy is _fifteen,_ ” he explained reasonably. “Moreover, the Dark Lord does not bed his followers.”

That did not reassure Regulus in the least. “I'm going to approach the Dark Lord."

Severus sneered down his nose at Regulus, treating him as if he were one of his students. "Perchance…all those years living with your house elf truly took a calamitous turn on your intelligence."

Regulus’ teeth snapped into a threatening snarl. "It's the most reasonable option I have remaining." He took a long stride across the room, stopping inches from Severus. "Lily is my answer."

Breathing deeply to calm his piqued rage, Severus busied himself with straightening his tools.

"She blackmailed me with the threat of losing my child. It may work with the Dark Lord. Moreover, I have a considerably large amount of political power, not only with the Britain Wizengamot, but in other countries as well. My chair is still open. The _Black_ chair is still open. I have a ridiculous amount of money at my—his—disposal and I have many properties across the world."

"All that will not blind the Dark Lord to the fact you had _betrayed_ him!"

"I wasn't Marked at that time. _She—_ Evans—told me about… an artifact the Dark Lord holds dear. It wasn't even there when I arrived at Bellatrix's vault! The Dark Lord isn't known for being merciful, but he's known for his manipulations. He can use my position as the Head of the Black family to his advantage."

While Regulus had been caught for his betrayal, Severus—to this day—did not understand what had happened.

"If you are willing to choose committing your life under his servitude over living your life in hiding, then by all means, go for it." Severus caressed the Dark Mark through his robes, a grim smile on his face. "You are willing to sacrifice your life—my life—for a boy who doesn't want anything to do with you."

Regulus appeared stricken. "I need more time with him," the man whispered. "You said it yourself. He's trying to distance himself because he wants to protect _us_." He looked at Severus’ drawn features. “Your part is easily explained away. I faked my own death. You fully believed you had succeeded in killing me.”

Severus shook his head. “He will not believe that.”

“Then I overwhelmed you and _Obliviated_ you.”

“A Master Legilimens…” He trailed off and straightened his knives. “It is a risk I am willing to take if this is truly the only solution.”

“I need this.” Regulus smiled gravely. "I need to protect my son. Izar needs someone he can trust, especially when he’s entering the Dark Lord’s world. There is also my fanatical great grandfather and his curse—Cygnus' Curse. What if he's inherited the _gift_?"

"He's showed no signs of being able to see spirits—"

"It doesn't matter. We will only know for sure if he's near a source of death, particularly, the Veil." The man paused. "One of the side-effects is magic sensitivity. Do you know if he's magic sensitive?"

"I do not know," Severus admitted. "While I have watched over him throughout his years at Hogwarts, I am not particularly close to the boy." Severus looked toward the door, his lips thinning. "Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

Regulus cocked an eyebrow and smirked devilishly. Severus stared, seeing the ghost of the familiar eighteen-year-old Slytherin.

"Are you trying to get rid of me, Severus?

"Yes," Severus said bluntly. "I have several potions that need to be completed tomorrow."

Charcoal eyes danced across Severus' face before narrowing in on the cauldron. "I know you're frustrated with me and my decision to come out of hiding. I understand I'm putting everyone at risk, but I can promise you, I will not allow harm to come to either you or Izar. I want to straighten things out with my son, my family, and with you, Severus."

Severus turned away, infuriated.

The man was suicidal. But Regulus was also smart. If anyone could worm their way out of this, it would be Regulus. The man was raised as a true Slytherin, and most times, he acted like a Slytherin. There were times, however, when Regulus resembled his brother in terms of taking things a bit too lightly.

During his school years, Severus had been interested in learning about pure-bloods, especially the Blacks. He had heard of their power, their insanity, their dual personalities, and their long line of interbred family members. It was during his second year when he had fixatedly watched as Regulus Black was Sorted. Severus could still recall Regulus _glide_ toward the Slytherin table with his nose in the air.

From that day forward, Severus had watched in envy as the pure-bloods held themselves gracefully and prominently. No matter how often half-bloods tried, or even Muggleborns, they could never mimic that impeccable grace the pure-bloods possessed. During his later years, he had grown resentful of the whole dance and charade.

Oddly enough, he was never able to tear his interest away from Regulus.

The man had always been _there_.

A cold hand covered his. Severus stiffened, looking down at the ring-clad hand covering his before meeting Regulus’ intense gaze. "You deserve so much better, Severus. I hope to bring you a bit more…radiance in your life."

For a moment's hesitation, Severus delighted in the warmth before scowling deeply. He ripped his hand away, grimacing at the knowing smirk crossing Black's face. He turned away, grasping the stirring rod and removing it from the mint green potion. He lowered the flame and then considered the other batches set on simmer.

Only when he knew he had reasonably recovered, he addressed the other wizard. "When do you plan on approaching the Dark Lord?"

There was no response.

Severus looked up, his eyes searching his rooms before landing on the ajar door.

"Merlin have mercy on that foolish idiot," Severus murmured, his fingers itching the Dark Mark. "If not for me, then do it for his son."


	13. Part One, Chapter Thirteen

**Part One, Chapter Thirteen**

Izar lifted the microscopic lens to his eye as he inspected the small chip on his finger.

The Dark Lord’s portkey was complete with the exception of a few minor tweaks. It had taken several days before he could safely say that it was functional. It had taken a bit of work getting all the charms to coexist after being shrunken—a similar problem he’d had this summer with his invention. His first attempt had resulted in an explosion and a loss of eyebrows and eyelashes.

While in the Hospital Wing, as Madame Promfrey had lectured him about the dangers of experimental magic, Izar had realized his mistake. By shrinking the portkey, he had decreased the area of spell work he had created, unintentionally merging the spells together. He realized a cushioning charm was vital to weave between each spell to prevent overlapping.

Izar admired his work, a light and rare smile playing across his mouth.

"Beautiful work," a voice murmured appreciatively behind him.

Izar frowned before looking up into the smug eyes of Lukas Steinar. "If I recall correctly, the library is where students study,” he informed scathingly. "The alcove near the Ravenclaw Common Room is not a location usually sought after, especially by outsiders."

Lukas offered a crooked smile, not at all deterred. "What if I said I wasn't looking for a place to study but rather looking for you?" He offered Izar one long, lingering look. "I could say the same about you, you know. What are you _tinkering_ with here, in the dark?"

Izar turned away from the Durmstrang student and removed a pair of tweezers from his bag. Slowly, he took the chip from his finger and set the portkey inside a case. Snapping the lid closed, he threw a watchful Steinar a look.

"This is _my_ alcove.”

He’d found the niche in his second year. It was his place to get away when the library grew too crowded during finals. And as of late, it was his place to work on the Dark Lord's project.

"Yes, I've heard." The brunette sat down uninvitedly at the small table. He ran an eye across the various small instruments and the open books strewn about. "I asked what you were _doing_ in here. What was that chip you were working on?"

Izar remained stone-faced as he placed the case into his bag. "You ask too many questions."

"Fair enough. We’re competition, I get that.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "But we don’t have to be _strict_ competition. We can get to know one another, right? I find your unpleasantries a refreshing change of pace from the norm.”

“The norm being?”

“People falling over themselves to get to know me, to get _something_ from me.”

Izar stared apathetically at the boy. “Right.”

He turned his cheek and proceed to gather his strewn-about books.

It had been nearly two weeks since his argument with Draco. Since then, Izar had gradually put the pieces together. At first, he had thought his own House had placed his name in the Goblet. However, his uncertainties had grown when Daphne pointed out that half the Slytherin House was jealous of Izar's position in Voldemort's ranks.

It had made sense that the Slytherins wanted to endanger—or humiliate—him with the Tournament. 

But after the quarrel with Malfoy…

Izar's lips thinned as he stared unseeingly at his school bag.

Draco had prattled about things not going to plan. That _he_ was supposed to be Champion. And to get so emotionally distraught about not being selected… it was evident the boy had been told he’d be Champion by the Dark Lord or Lucius Malfoy. And for some ungodly reason, they believed Izar was better suited as Hogwarts Champion. Quite frankly, anyone would have been better than Draco, but that was beside the point.

He didn’t understand _why_ Voldemort entered him in the Tournament. Did it have to do with Voldemort’s earlier claim that he wanted Izar out of the shadows and into politics? Surely the Dark Lord would have told him about it—

No.

He grew frustrated at himself.

Of course the Dark Lord wouldn’t have told him. It was dangerous to start expecting _anything_ from the Dark Lord.

Izar refocused on Steinar when the boy cleared his throat. “How did you know I was here, anyway?”

“A Mudblood.” His lip curled bitterly at the very thought. “Granger, I believe her name was. I charmed the answer out of her.”

“I imagine she was beside herself with your charms.”

Steinar completely missed the dry sarcasm. “Quite,” he agreed. “And here I thought the Ravenclaws were the levelheaded bunch of the school.” Here, Lukas looked pointedly at the raven on Izar’s school robes.

Izar scoffed. “I don’t assume every Durmstrang student is a pain in the ass just because you are.” He stood up and shouldered his bag. "Was there a reason you came up here?"

Lukas remained sitting calmly. "I've noticed that your Undersecretary isn't very close with you. He looks at you as I would look at Granger." He placed his chin upon his hand and contorted his features into mock pensiveness. "He hasn't told you about the First Task, has he?"

"Of course he hasn't," Izar replied shortly. "That would be cheating."

“Cheating," Lukas repeated with a wry grin. "I suppose it would be cheating if our Ministers haven't already told Cyprien Beaumont and myself. We already know what challenge awaits us tomorrow and you are entirely ignorant. How fair is that?"

Izar skillfully masked his anger. Voldemort hadn't told him about the First Task. While the Dark Lord had commented on dueling being a large part of the Second Task, he never once hinted at the First.

"Well? I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it is?"

Lukas stood up and took an advancing step forward. He loomed above Izar and tapped his cheek. "Now _that_ would be cheating, wouldn't it?" The boy leaned forward, his breath trailing across Izar’s ear. “I came up here to wish you good luck tomorrow. We'll see each other at the luncheon, but I won't have another opportunity to wish you luck in person.”

With one last notorious smirk, Lukas pulled away and disappeared down the stairs.

Izar stood rigidly in the center of his alcove, his gaze cold and bitter as he stared unblinkingly at the wall across from him.

*** * * ***

Regulus stroked his short beard while his opposite hand raked through his cut hair.

His new robes were stiff and restricting, a royal blue in hue that announced his political, albeit diplomatic agenda. The Black family crest was stitched on his chest, large enough for anyone to take notice. The Black family was not heard of often these days, but Regulus intended to change that. It was time to reclaim their position at the top.

There was only one hurdle to get through before Regulus could proceed forward.

"I'm here to see Undersecretary Tom Riddle.”

The woman peered at him over her thick-framed spectacles, her murky brown eyes condescendingly amused. "Mr. Riddle is very busy today. I'm afraid you'll have to make an appointment and come back at a later date." She grabbed a quill with her long, talon-like nails. "Next month is the next available time—"

"I'm afraid that won't do.” Regulus straightened. “There must be a _short_ time available today… now…" he pushed.

"Let him in, Roberta."

Regulus looked up, catching sight of the Dark Lord leaning against his doorframe across the hallway, his expression less than pleased. Regulus had told himself meeting at the Ministry wouldn't be as difficult as seeing the Dark Lord in his true form outside the public eyes. Yet all that seemed to be heresy as he experienced the spasm of fear he had hoped to avoid.

The Dark Lord stared at him, his expression entirely blank, but his eyes livid. Regulus flashed Roberta one last look before walking stiffly down the hallway. There were desks lined up on either side of Riddle's office, housing busy wizards and witches. They barely spared him a glance as they continued with their tasks.

Riddle took a step back, inviting Regulus inside.

As soon as that door shut, Regulus knew his fate would be sealed.

He entered with a stiff spine. Behind him, the door closed.

Continuing to direct his tunneled stare forward, Regulus felt the Dark Lord breeze past him. The taller wizard stood behind his desk and clasped his hands behind his back, watching Regulus as if he were a repulsive pest. Silence was never a reassuring sign. Not with this wizard.

Recognizing he needed to be the first to break the impasse, Regulus exhaled shakily and lowered to one knee.

Tightening his left hand into a fist, he brought up his arm and placed his pulse point between his eyes. It was a practiced gesture from the days pure-bloods were respected, from the days they practiced their dances. The gesture was meant to demonstrate vulnerability and respect to a higher-ranking wizard.

"Forgive me, My Lord.” He kept his eyes stubbornly on the floor. “I have betrayed and wronged you. As repentance, I give you my freedom, I give you my will and soul."

"You have wronged me _greatly_ ," Riddle hissed. "And for what means? All for your Mudblood wench?"

Regulus closed his eyes. The Dark Lord didn't seem surprised that Regulus was alive. That only meant the man _had_ known he was alive. He _had_ known that Severus had not followed through with his word. Severus’ assumptions from last night had been correct. The Dark Lord was all knowing. “I know it is inexcusable, My Lord, but my betrayal was committed for _what_ the Mudblood was carrying at the time. I committed my act of treachery for the son I was led to believe she was carrying—that she later claimed she was not carrying…”

The Dark Lord chuckled.

It was not at all comforting.

“You are smart for confronting me here, Black. You know I cannot do what I so rightfully deserve to do."

The Cruciatus curse. _If_ Regulus was lucky. There were much harsher and painful curses the Dark Lord had up his sleeves. And that was exactly why Regulus approached the Dark Lord at the Ministry. He wanted to explain himself while the man was indisposed and virtually fangless.

"I could bring you away from here," Voldemort continued softly. He moved around his desk and approached Regulus’ hunched and defeated figure. "Only there could I enjoy inflicting the punishment you deserve.” He came to a stop directly next to Regulus. “You are aware of my favor toward your son.”

It was not a question, but rather a cold and blunt statement.

Denying it would be an insult to the both of them, yet the Dark Lord hovered, waiting for an answer.

Regulus closed his eyes. “I—had my suspicions—”

“And you used it to your advantage.” Fingers raked through Regulus’ hair, pulling at the roots and forcing his head backward. Red eyes stared down at him with contempt. “It’s what any Slytherin would do to save their own hide, yet it is rather pathetic that you’re using your son as a shield. You think to challenge me, to call my bluff that I won’t kill you in order to stay in Izar’s favor.”

“Never challenge—”

“You _are_ challenging me.” Riddle released his hair and threw him aside. “Your scheme has worked, Black. I won’t kill you or Severus for your betrayals.”

Regulus stayed down where the Dark Lord tossed him, knowing any attempt to straighten or right himself would only be seen as disobedience. Rather, he placed his hands on the ground, fisting the rug and chancing a look up at the Dark Lord. “My Lord…I will certainly make it up to you. I will pledge myself to you and your cause. My resources—”

“You will do all that and more,” he assured. “Moreover, because you found it apt to use Izar as your gambling dice, I will see that and raise you tenfold.” The Dark Lord removed a ring from his pocket, the sheen black, the design Celtic. “Know that I will bind and chain him to my side… _forever_. I will make it known to him that he has you to thank for such a position.” 

Regulus' stomach dropped and turned cold. He recognized the ring as belonging to many pure-blooded families. " _No!"_ he hissed, fury blinding him once he realized what the magical ring was and its intended purpose. "Leave Izar out of this! This is between you and I, not him—”

“It is _you_ who has willingly placed him between us.” Riddle pocketed the ring and smiled down at Regulus. “I would not be Slytherin if I did not use it to my advantage.”

Regulus sat, stunned.

The undersecretary moved across the room and plucked his outer cloak from its hook. “Alas, I must cut our meeting short, as I have a luncheon to attend at Hogwarts.” He glided across the room towards the door, his expression scarily blank. “I will keep in touch with you as to our next meeting.” He opened the door. “You may show yourself out when you’ve come to terms with the mess you’ve made.”

With that, the man exited his office.

Regulus' face crumbled as he placed his face in his hands.

*** * * ***

"You look _very_ handsome," Daphne persisted yet _again_ as they made their way up to the third floor. Her hands continued to pry at his robes, picking and smoothing down the fabric. Stopping him in his tracks, she pinched the imaginary fuzz off his robes.

Izar sighed.

"You're a mother hen.” He pushed her hands away as she came at his robes again. "Everything will go fine, Daphne. I wore neutral robes, I read up on the etiquette for political luncheons, and no matter what someone says, I will convey absolute boredom. Which should be quite easy…”

Mossy green eyes flashed up at him. "You told me what the Dark Lord said, Izar. He wants you to make a good impression." A sly grin stretched her flawlessly painted lips. "He also wants you to be a force in the political world. It just goes to show he has big plans for you. You should be excited. Not all of us get such an opportunity.”

Yes, Riddle made that very clear.

It was all about the opportunity and how Izar was wasting it.

Izar turned his gaze to the ceiling. He was beginning to realize it was a mistake telling Daphne what the Dark Lord had said at Hog's Head. He assumed she could help prepare him for situations like these, but Daphne didn’t just _help._ She mothered him instead, nitpicking on the littlest mistake he made at dinner. She had enjoyed herself far too much.

"No," Izar drawled, "it just goes to show that he wants his Death Eaters to be influential." He lowered his gaze to her smug expression. "If neutral individuals realize that influential wizards and witches were following a rising Dark Lord, they'd most certainly consider joining the cause. _That_ is why the Dark Lord wants _all_ of us to succeed."

She tsked. “I believe he sees the potential you have to offer, Izar. Like I always have. You'd make a brilliant politician."

Izar frowned as he side-stepped further into the corridor, giving them more privacy as a few students passed. "Are you daft?" She glowered, her bottom lip seemingly curling into a pout. "I hate these things. If it was the Dark Lord’s goal to pick the least suitable wizard for his ‘big, political plans’, he succeeded."

Sniffing, the blond witch ignored his comment and rather touched the hem of his sleeve. "Do you like the robes?"

Izar looked down at the black robes. They were simple, yet they were _new_. He had never owned new robes before. "They're very nice," Izar admitted softly, feeling ashamed. There was a Hogwarts crest near his shoulder, declaring his loyalty to Hogwarts and not just Ravenclaw. "Thank you for the robes, I will pay you back as soon as I get the money."

"Nonsense," Daphne retorted. "They weren't particularly expensive." She paused and a scheming, considering light entered her eyes. "Dress robes, on the other hand, can be a bit spendy…"

He narrowed his eyes. “Just what are you getting at?"

She trailed a well-manicured red nail along his collar and smiled wickedly. "The Yule Ball is approaching, Izar. I was hoping you could accompany me." Her expression crumbled into mock hurt. "I know its tradition for the wizard to ask the witch, but when have I ever acted like the submissive maiden?"

"You truly are one of a kind," Izar conceded. She looked expectant. He breathed heavily through his nose, not wanting to go, but acknowledging the requirement. "I would be most honored, Ms. Greengrass, to accompany you to the Yule Ball.”

Green eyes brightened and her smile was predatory. "I know just the robes to get you…."

She trailed off as a large figure cast a shadow across them both. Izar looked up, spotting Tom Riddle. He pursed his lips at the sight of the man, not at all impressed by the Dark Lord at the moment. Daphne, on the other hand, flushed a light pink and curtsied flawlessly.

The Dark Lord chuckled lowly.

Whether it was from Daphne’s or Izar's reaction, he didn't know, nor care.

"Ms. Greengrass," Riddle greeted silkily, causing the blush to deepen across Daphne's cheeks.

“Undersecretary Riddle, it's an honor to see you.” 

Izar turned away, brooding darkly. He ignored Daphne's disapproving stare, not caring how immature he was acting. He just couldn't _look_ at the Dark Lord after knowing the man had willingly put his name in the Goblet without notice, without authorization. Despite his anger, Izar knew he had no right to resent the man. The Dark Lord did not ask his followers for permission. The man doesn't share his plans with his servants either, especially a fifteen-year-old wizard.

His anger—his sense of entitlement—would only get him in trouble. Did he not mock the others who believed they held a special place in the Dark Lord’s eyes? Yet here he was, acting the same way.

“I’m assuming you had a hand in getting our Champion prepared today?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A job well done.”

She bowed her head. “He cleans up quite nicely, sir, I didn’t have to do much to make him shine.”

“If he turned that petulant scowl into something more manageable, I would have to agree with you.”

Daphne offered Izar a thin smile as she curtsied once more. “I know you two would like to confer before the luncheon. I will leave you to it.” She tugged on Izar’s sleeve. “Good luck today.”

Izar watched her depart quickly from the corridor, undoubtedly having sensed the tension between the two wizards. And there definitely was tension. Not just from Izar, but he could sense a certain rigidity to the Dark Lord’s magic. Moreover, when the hand curled around the back of Izar’s neck, the fingers tightened with intentional ire.

He was forced to glide alongside Voldemort, hyperaware of the hand shackling him like a collar.

"I can't help but to think you're angry with me," Riddle mused. "But that certainly can’t be the case, can it?"

"Of course not," Izar said dryly. "How could anyone get angry with your majesty?"

Voldemort did not find Izar’s cheek amusing, rather, he pulled him down an unused side of the corridor. The hand around Izar’s neck released him with a shove, sending him against the wall. He stiffened abruptly as the Dark Lord loomed before him, his expression pinched with undeniable rage albeit a bit of excitement.

Izar released a shaky breath and pressed his back against the wall. The _magic_!

He got caught up in Riddle’s adrenaline, watching the man near even closer, their noses a mere inch apart.

“We only have a few minutes before the luncheon begins, and in that time, we will strike a sensitive agreement. I want you to listen to me very carefully." Riddle reached forward, curling his long fingers around Izar’s collar and holding the young wizard firmly against the wall. “A man visited me today at the Ministry. A man who had once betrayed me.”

Izar turned cold.

Riddle released Izar’s collar and took a step back. “He begged me to spare his life. But I don't forgive betrayals, and I'm not particularly fond of forgiving those who deliberately lie to me."

"You knew I was lying," Izar said as soon as Riddle’s rage focused on _him_. "You knew all along that Regulus was alive. When I lied to you about meeting Regulus that day at the Hog's Head, I figured that simple, _small_ lie wouldn't be worth a grain of salt. Not only because you seemed to have known, but I had believed Regulus would return to hiding. I did not know he would confront you."

"It does not matter.” Riddle stared at Izar, his fury cooling into scary impassiveness. "The day you took my Mark, I expected complete and utter loyalty from you. I put my trust in you—"

"You don't trust anybody. Don't make me out as a fool," Izar whispered darkly. “For you to trust me, it would require you to tell me why you entered my name in the Goblet. It would require you to tell me what the First Task was—just like the other Ministers had told their Champions."

A slow, knowing smile curled Riddle’s mouth. “It feels good to get that off your chest, doesn’t it?”

Heat burned across Izar’s cheeks for the condescending remark.

“The cruel fate of it, Izar, is that you belong to me. Should I wish to enter your name in the Goblet, I will do so without the obligation of telling you my reasons." An eyebrow arched. "As for the First Task, I am more than confident you can handle yourself without knowing what awaits you. I want you to prove yourself to me. I want to see what kind of wizard you are.”

Izar didn’t know what to think about that. He was still furious with the Dark Lord—as well as disgusted at the man’s sense of ownership—yet…when the man put it like _that,_ it truly did encourage Izar to fight his way through this Tournament and show others what he could accomplish. He didn’t need hints; he didn’t need information handed to him.

He looked down at his trainers. “What are you going to do with Regulus and Professor Snape?” he asked tensely. He didn’t want to care. He told himself he shouldn’t.

Yet he did.

Riddle’s gaze was unfriendly. “I think you’re smart enough to figure that out for yourself.”

Izar’s stomach plummeted and a deep despair welled inside him. How could Regulus have been so stupid?

“Unless…” Riddle trailed off, reestablishing Izar’s sharp attention. “I don’t often make exceptions, yet there may be something you can do to stop my hand. But it requires _obedience._ ”

Suspicion and dread immediately clouded Izar’s senses. He watched as Riddle removed a small ring box from his cloak. When he opened the lid, Riddle held it out to Izar, displaying a handsome, black titanium ring inside. Izar’s dread only skyrocketed.

“All you need to do is put this on your finger, and your father and Severus will be spared.”

Izar’s mind raced quickly and he glared up at the Dark Lord. “You had this planned out even before Regulus came along, didn't you?"

He had no idea what the ring’s purpose was. It was magical, that much was certain as Izar felt the bit of magic coming from the ring. There were several magical rings in the wizarding world, originating from an array of pure-blood traditions. He really hadn't been that interested in the subject, after all, he would have never thought he would be subjected to one.

“That is irrelevant.” The Dark Lord held the ring closer to Izar. “The decision of your father’s fate is entirely yours to make.” 

"What does it do?" Izar demanded hastily, taking sudden notice of the ring on Riddle's hand. The man wore an exact replica on his middle finger, only his was silver.

“After you put the ring on your finger, you can research it. You'll find the information in a textbook. Until then, you’ll have to make this decision instinctively.” Voldemort raised his eyebrows, his ivory hand still holding the box out to Izar.

Even Izar could see the absolute mercilessness in Riddle’s eyes.

Considering Voldemort possessed a similar ring, it was obviously linked to the man himself. It had to do with loyalty, possibly truthfulness. It could also be a punishment, putting Izar through both emotional and physical pain. However, he doubted the latter. Judging from Riddle’s expression, this ring was already planned before Regulus had approached him at the Ministry.

But now, with Regulus' reappearance, Voldemort finally had something to force Izar’s acceptance.

He couldn't deny his concern for Regulus. It was difficult to pinpoint what he wanted to feel for the man. Dislike, surely, because the man thought he could waltz up to Voldemort and expect both Izar and Snape to get by unscathed. But he also felt a bit of grudging respect that the man decided to stay in Britain and face his demons.

_For him…_

"The luncheon will begin shortly, Izar. I will not offer this opportunity again."

Izar closed his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose in an attempt to calm himself. He hated not knowing the ring's properties. He was oblivious to the fate he was choosing. It wasn't very fair, but then again…this was two lives he had a potential to save. He did not owe them anything, and yet…

This was exactly why he avoided attachments.

Bloody hell.

"Which finger?" it came out resigned and jaded.

"Left hand, middle finger."

"If I place this ring on my finger, you will spare _both_ Regulus and Professor Snape, correct?"

Voldemort took Izar's wrist, pulling the younger wizard closer. Izar stumbled, reaching out and steadying himself on Voldemort's arm. “I guarantee _both_ lives will be spared.”

The ring was on Izar's finger, sealing the fate of both himself and his father.

Izar stared at the onyx ring, watching as it shrunk to fit him tightly. He felt the magic grow and expand, seemingly stretching between both himself and the Dark Lord. It would have made him feel better if he knew he could experiment with the ring, but Izar knew magical rings were one of the most binding rituals in the magical world.

"Don't look so forlorn. There are worse things,” Riddle mused as he brushed past Izar and into the main corridor. "When you do find out the ring's properties, I would like for you to approach me. We will need to discuss a few things."

Izar did not—could not—find a retort as he followed Riddle to the luncheon.

He felt bound and _chained_.

He glared at the Dark Lord's back.

Now, more than ever, he was determined to figure out the Dark Mark’s properties. With the portkey completed, and not expected to be done before Christmas break, Izar had more time to commit himself to the wand core. Voldemort did not need to know Izar had finished his assignment, otherwise the man would just assign another project to distract Izar.

He would unlock his bindings with this wizard one chain at a time.

*** * * ***

The luncheon had been uneventful.

Izar had been rather subdued during the gathering. He ate his food properly, he used proper etiquette, and he made polite conversation. Aside from the necessity, he had remained silent and pretended he was anywhere but there.

Tom Riddle, on the other hand, made up for Izar's silence. The man was sickly polite, trading cutting remarks with Bjørn Steinar, the Norwegian Minister. Their insults were always coated sweetly with an underlayer of malice. Even when he’d been in a dour mood, Izar had marveled at the Dark Lord's flawless deliveries and dry wit.

After lunch, Izar and the other Champions were ushered inside a tent.

He tugged curiously at his robes, admiring their tasteful design before glancing at his competition. Both Cyprien Beaumont and Lukas Steinar were pacing back and forth, their fingers brushing their wands for reassurance and their expressions incredibly pinched. Izar busied himself with adjusting his leather glove while periodically glancing at Steinar.

“No smart comments from you, Steinar? You seem especially worried for someone who knows what the Task is,” Izar provoked.

That earned the instant, infuriated regard of the Durmstrang wizard.

Before the boy could respond, the judges entered the tent. They appraised the three Champions, making sure they were dressed and decent. Dumbledore was in the lead, and just behind the six judges, the sound of thunderous cheering could be heard. Evidently, all the fans were present, filling up the stands of the Quidditch pitch and waiting for the competition to begin. 

Izar stood slowly and briefly caught the eyes of Riddle.

"Gather around, gentlemen.”

Izar made his way over to Dumbledore, ignoring Lukas as the boy knocked into his shoulder on the way there.

“Each of you will draw a parchment.” The Headmaster pulled out three small scrolls, each one decorated with a bright, golden ribbon around its middle. “On the parchment, you will find a number at the top. That number represents the order in which you will compete." The wizard allowed the Champions to each pluck a scroll from his hand.

Izar took the offered scroll, slowly unrolling it to see a number three at the top.

"For your first Task,” Dumbledore continued, “each of you will be entering the Forbidden Forest. You will only be accompanied by your wand and your roll of parchment.

"On your parchment, you will find a list of items. It is your job to navigate your way through the forest to collect all these items. Points will be rewarded for each item collected and the amount of time it takes you to complete your hunt. The shorter amount of time will increase your chances of obtaining additional points." Dumbledore gazed at the three wizards over his spectacles. "The Forbidden Forest is extremely dangerous. If you find yourself unable to continue, there is still a possibility you may succeed over your rivals."

Izar stared at the list, feeling his nerves settle just a bit. He knew all the items. Granted, he had never entered the forest before, but he had a general idea of what kind of environment most of the plants and fungi were favored to grow.

"You will also be allowed your bag and vials.” Minister Steinar approached and handed each of the Champions a sack with a few glass vials inside. "This is not just a scavenger hunt, boys," the man barked. "In the forest, you will be confronted with beasts and horrors alike." He looked at Izar and smiled maliciously.

Izar narrowed his eyes before snapping the parchment high enough to block the man’s regard.

"You will enter the forest five minutes apart. Each of you will be timed separately." Dumbledore ushered the group with his hand. "Who is first?” Cyprien straightened and waved his scroll. "Then by all means, Mr. Beaumont, please accompany me out of the tent.”

Dumbledore escorted the redhead out the tent with Madame Maxime and Minister Serge Roux following close behind. 

Loud cries from the students and fans erupted across the pitch at Cyprien's appearance.

Their cheers echoed eerily across the tent, leaving Izar a bit anxious.


End file.
